


when we speak of roses

by frostyoats



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fluff, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostyoats/pseuds/frostyoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Valkyrie is in shambles, and the world around Angela pushes her further into a corner than she can handle. Desolate and closer to danger than she first thought, she's forced to make a decision when call-sign Pharah appears at her doorstep with two choices: rejoin the organization she turned her own back on, or be hunted down by the man she brought back to life. When she chooses the former, she finds herself at odds with Pharah, and the rest of Overwatch can feel it, too. Meanwhile, a greater threat looms on the horizon, and they can only hope to challenge it if they first come to terms with what little they have left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Angela doesn’t need a holiday. At least, that’s what she tells herself when she sinks into her work chair and her fingers start to melt into her keyboard. She's been stationed in Iraq for exactly fifty-seven days. Plunked down into the middle of war, with every night spent in an unkempt cot, dirt-covered and dry, and every morning spent in the Valkyrie, making fingers twitch back to life only six seconds from death.

There's a cardboard box on the floor near her feet, covered around the sides in duct tape and black Sharpie. In the box are what remains of the Valkyrie, torn apart into fragments like jagged pieces of glass, and scavenged from sand-riddled fields from extensive overuse and damage.

 She doesn't have a whole lot of options when it comes to getting a new one made. All she has left is the research lab back at the hospital, which she's been given the freedom to use at her leisure, though she's not afraid to admit that the facilities there will never be up to par with what Overwatch had. That much is true.

Her pen falls out from her fingers and she jolts out from a daydream, snapping her focus to the task at hand. Her eyes flit over to the clock on her computer, reading three in the morning-- leaving her only a mere four hours left for her flight back to Zürich. She sighs and gets herself ready for bed. It isn't anything strange to her at all. Sleepless nights are commonplace, and the wars have waged on for years on end.

She's ready to go home.

  
\---

Talon blows up the research lab. She only knows this because news these days spreads faster than schoolyard gossip, but she's on a plane 40,000 feet in the air when it happens on a seemingly average afternoon.

The plane lands in Kloten only a few hours after the incident, and she hails a taxi just outside the airport straight to the hospital. When she gets there, she pushes through murmuring crowds with her suitcase in tow, and she ducks under the barricade tape to see the aftermath for herself. The sight doesn't surprise her as much as it devastates her; equipment blown to bits, room charred black from ceiling to floor, torn wire spitting sparks into dust-clogged air.

By way of some miracle, no one is seriously hurt. That much is enough to keep Angela from falling into despair.

On the ride home, the destruction of the lab itself takes a moment to sink in. In her mind, it isn't a coincidence. When she draws a map in her head, it doesn't take long before all the red arrows point to a single conclusion.

Talon wants her research destroyed.

It wouldn't hurt as much if she had at least  _something_  left to hold onto.

When she gets to her apartment, she falls face first into her couch, and stays there without moving a single muscle. The room is as bright and open as she remembers it being; small, yet big enough to comfortably accommodate a single person.

She fetches her phone from her purse and checks her mailbox. Spam, spam, more spam. An adult site subscription (presumably spam, but if asked about, she won't be honest), and a recipe for chocolate cake that looks more or less decent (she saves it for later). An e-mail arrives fresh on her phone, and she opens it up. Immediately, she wishes she hadn't.

"Christ," she says under her breath.

An Overwatch recall notification, issued by Winston himself.

The expression on her face falls somewhere between disbelief and complete, utter shock. Though she's desperate for options, she's not far enough down the rabbit hole to let herself fall for this one. She'll admit, Overwatch was great at one point in time. But those days are long over. And while she believes in hope over any other God in the world, Overwatch's legacy is a bridge burnt by Reyes, and there isn't anything that Winston, or anyone for that matter, can do to bring it back.

There's no way in hell she'll take part in something so fruitless.

\---

The first thing Angela does when she wakes up the next morning is drop her mug. She doesn't recall ever being so clumsy, but she safely attributes it to the fact that she is just really tired. Really damn tired.

Her dining table is littered with blueprints for the Valkyrie, and sitting on top of them is a prototype of the biotic grenade that Torbjorn helped her put together a few months back. Her computer screen flashes with a second Overwatch recall alert, this time with an offer, too: a promise to work in a state-of-the-art research facility, and in addition, the opportunity to thwart potential crises in favour of the greater good.

Her eyes scan the list of members already signed up. Reinhardt, Tracer, McCree. She notices an unfamiliar call sign near the bottom-- Pharah -- which rolls nicely off her tongue but doesn't ring a bell (a new recruit, maybe). There's a twinge of nostalgia and maybe even guilt somewhere in her heart, but she can't place a finger on it. She closes her computer and doesn't think twice about it.

\---

The days are darker at the cusp fall, and the sun is shyer now than the stars. Angela can't remember how many days she's been cooped up in her apartment for since getting back, or how many microwaved dinners she's tossed straight into the trash without having taken a single bite ( ~~yes, she'll badger you for your own unhealthy habits, but God forbid she takes care of herself~~ ).

When it's evening, she throws on a hoodie over her t-shirt and takes a walk down to the nearest 24-hour store. The streets are eerily quiet for it being early October, but she's been away from home long enough to know that a lot can change in a lifetime of paranoia.

She shoves her hands into her pockets and walks into the store and past the cashier, under the dull buzz of electricity and the sound of faint elevator music. She scours the aisles for things to keep her mind at work; a long bottle of red wine, a travel-sized tube of personal lubricant, a canister of ground Colombian coffee beans. She throws them onto the checkout counter just as rain starts to hit the concrete outside like buckets.

"Shitty day, yeah?" says the cashier, an Omnic, glancing out the window.

"Well, I've definitely seen worse," says Angela, reaching for the wallet in her purse. She halts for a moment when she finds her biotic grenade lodged between her makeup kit and her pocket-sized version of   _Moomin_. Her eyes flit around nervously as she pushes it further down into her bag. The last thing she wants happening today is getting arrested for (accidental) possession of explosives.

She leaves immediately after paying and rushes down the sidewalk to her apartment in the rain, curving around as many puddles as she can. The streets are even quieter than before, which she didn't think was possible, and sees a lamppost flickering in the distance only a block away. 

Her heart beats faster in her chest when she feels a sense of pressure around her, and her fingers tighten around her bag of groceries. She freezes in place and turns her back only to see a dark cloud of smoke appear in front of her, followed by a raspy laugh.

"Didn't think I'd see you like this," says the voice, which she can only discern as her ex-colleague, Gabriel Reyes. He appears in front of her wearing a black cloak, face obscured with a cracked barn owl-shaped mask. "You're a mess, doc."

 He isn't wrong. Her hair is matted with rainwater, there are dark half-moons hanging under her eyes, and she's dressed thoroughly unprofessional in an oversized hoodie and jeans.

"Out of the goodness of my heart, I won't comment on your own get-up," says Angela. "Never one for subtlety, were you. Did you just come here for a chat?"

"Look, I'll make this quick," he says. He pulls out a pistol, seemingly out of nowhere, and points it straight to her chest. "What you see here is the quietest gun known to man. No one will even know you're gone."

(Angela's seen war and she's seen genocide-- an old colleague isn't anything that scares her one bit. ~~Though she _is_ being held at gunpoint~~).

"What are you after?" she asks, trying her hardest to stop the tremble in her hands. "You're working for Talon, aren't you?"

"Talon wants your research," he says. "But me?" He takes off his mask, revealing his pale and severely disfigured face, scars running across in all directions and skin drooping in the oddest of places. "After what you did to me, you know  _damn_ well what I want from you." 

Angela's throat tightens. "Okay. What Talon wants can be arranged. I carry everything with me, if you'd let me reach for my purse, we can get it over with quickly." She knows Gabriel well enough to see he prioritizes Talon's mission over his own, and she'll stall if it means staying alive for just a little longer.

He pauses and tightens his grip around the gun. "You have ten seconds."

She keeps eye contact and reaches for the bottom of her purse, squeezing past her wallet and steadying her grip. 

"You have five seconds."

Five seconds is all it takes.

She throws her arm out from her purse and smashes the biotic grenade into his face. His finger slips on the trigger and the gun fires without making a sound, bullet darting past and grazing Angela's right cheek. He screams in pain and Angela makes a run for it, dashing through a shortcut in the alleyway, taking a left and a right before rushing up the emergency stairwell of her apartment, straight to the seventh floor. She fumbles for the keycard and slides it into the scanner, pushing herself into her room and locking the door shut. She presses her back against the entrance, her heart struggling to catch up with her breath.

They aren't just after her research. They're after her life.

\---

Angela doesn't sleep. Instead, she paces around the living room from night until morning with the blinds rolled down, letting only a trickle of light leak into her apartment. She parts the curtains and peeks through, suddenly envious of the life outside. She takes the quickest shower she can manage, and skips the hair dryer, worried she might be leaving herself out in the open.

There's a loud bang on her door, followed by a rapid series of knocks. She's stopped expecting company for a long while now. She's been lonely for longer than she can remember, and it's her secret to keep-- the only company she could possibly expect now is Talon at her throat. She does up the buttons on her shirt just short of her clavicle, and grabs the pistol from her bedside drawer.

Her feet take her to the front entrance, her hands tight around the grip of the gun. The security feed shows her elderly neighbour outside her door, back hunched over with age, and grey hair tied up into a neat bun. Angela hides the gun in the shoe rack, throws a pair of boots over it, and opens the door.

"Good morning!" says Angela, voice shaking. She gives her a signature Ziegler Smile, as gentle and warm as they come. "You're looking well!"

She laughs. "I can't say the same for you, my dear. What did you do to yourself here?" She points at the bandage on Angela's cheek, where the bullet had grazed her the night before.

Her hand does a little wave, brushing it off. "You know me," she says. "Clumsy as always."

"Hmm. You look tired."

"Yes, well. It comes with the work," says Angela, trying to calm herself down. The old woman isn't here to kill her, she thinks, unless she's terribly unlucky. "Are you taking care of yourself? There's this nasty cold going around lately."

"Oh, a cold won't bring me down. I came here to bring you this. I just heard you come back home a few days ago."

She presents her with a beautiful chocolate cake that's almost too nice to eat, piped around the sides in brilliant white frosting and topped with the brightest cherries she's ever seen.

"You shouldn't have," says Angela, accepting the gift. "But I can't eat this all myself. Perhaps you'd like to come in and have some tea with it?"

Her neighbour's old eyes scan the apartment top and down. "You live alone?" she asks innocently.

Angela blinks. "I... I do, miss."

"You're not married yet?"

"No, I'm single." She wishes she weren't.

"Huh." She pauses for a moment. "A woman like you. I thought I heard two people in here, before you left."

Angela furrows her brow. "How so?"

"Ah, I heard noises sometimes during the night. The walls are a bit thin, coming from the bedroom."

Angela blushes profusely.

"I hear groaning--"

"I see then. Well, um. Have a nice rest of your day." She closes the door and presses her back against it.

The old lady must be going senile.

But the cake is delicious.

\---

Angela pushes her chair back and stretches her arms out from her sides. Getting up, she walks over to the kitchen counter and grabs a drink, the wine she bought from the 24-hours store. She has one glass. Then two. Then three. If they're out for her blood, she reasons she might as well drink her problems away.

It doesn't seem like a bad idea to her at the time.

\---

There's a buzz on the intercom. There might have been more than just one, she isn't sure. She laughs, because usually she's so sure about everything (and plus, everything's funnier when she's drunk). She can barely get herself back on her feet, but she wobbles over to the security feed and peers into the screen, which shows the front entrance of the apartment building. There's a tall, dark woman with broad shoulders (clearly a foreigner; no local would wear a scarf so big and a coat so large in this weather), and Angela reaches for the button.

"If you're a Jehova's Witness, I promise you won't enjoy my attention," she says, intoxication clear in her voice.

 The woman's back is still as straight as before. "I'm looking for Dr. Angela Ziegler," she says, in accented English, voice firm.

"This is her," says Angela, in the same tongue. "Dr. Ziegler appreciates it when people introduce themselves to her in return." The woman stays silent (out of confusion, most likely). "Could I get a name at the very least?" 

"Pharah," she responds, curt and simple. A callsign, the one from before.

 Angela buzzes her in and smoothes out her shirt. When the woman appears at her doorstep, Angela reckons she must be something around four inches taller, maybe five (she's drunk and tired and doesn't really care for specifics.) There's a tattoo under her eye, an Eye of Horus, and Angela sucks in a breath.

"Fareeha," says Angela. She might have gasped audibly, she isn't sure (she didn't expect her to be so  _tall_ \--  ~~or so attractive for that matter~~ ). But her stomach twists when she remembers Ana, and her mouth draws itself into a line when she thinks of what happened seven years back that she's kept hidden for so long.

"You remember me, then."

"Of course," says Angela, albeit a bit colder than she would have liked. They've met once and only once, when she was seventeen and Fareeha was twelve, and Ana had brought her over to visit headquarters.

"I still keep the photo with me," says Fareeha. "What um... what happened here?" She motions to her own cheek instead of Angela's.

"I'm clumsy," says Angela. "I'm sure you could tell." She thinks of the promise she made to Ana. She can try to act as if it's all fine and dandy now, but there's a tightness in her throat that she can't fake away. "So what did you come here for?" she says. "A snack? I have a cake in the fridge that needs to be eaten. You must be cold, too."

"I was sent here to escort you. By Overwatch."

"Overwatch," she repeats. The very word pisses her off. "Then they might as well have sent your _mother_ in to fetch me then." She loses her balance for a moment and Fareeha catches her by the arm, hurt clear on her face.

"Dr. Ziegler," she says frankly. "You're drunk."

"Hardly," she quips. "Now, I can pack you some cake to go if you're hungry-"

"You're being hunted down," she says. "By Reaper. Gabriel Reyes. He's alive."

Angela goes quiet for a moment. "I know," she says simply.

"You are going to get yourself killed if you stay out here," she snaps. "It won't be long before he finds out where you live." She stops for a few seconds to let it sink in. "He doesn't know about the base along the Rockies. You'll be safe there."

For once, she knows she can't argue. When it comes down to it, Fareeha's anything but wrong. She either goes with her, or leaves herself vulnerable like a rabbit amongst wolves.

"Ana never wanted you joining Overwatch," says Angela, defeated.

"I know," says Fareeha. "But I guess I'll never find out how she feels about it now, will I?"

Angela knows she's being selfish at this point. The choice is like waving a white flag, and there isn't any loophole out of it that she can think of. So she offers Fareeha a signature Ziegler Smile (to cover up, like always), takes a deep breath, and lends her a hand.

"I go by Mercy."

Fareeha gives her hand a strong, firm shake. "I go by Pharah."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow start! Things will pick up from here. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

There's no doubt in anyone's mind that Overwatch resorted to violent measures more often than not, and somewhere along the line, the general public grew a brain for once to realize that their means of peacemaking and peacekeeping were not entirely just. To Angela, there isn't any reason anyone would want the organization to come back to fruition, much less want to willingly _join_ it. She's known for her optimism, for being all sunshine and smiles; for being _the_ Dr. Ziegler, miracle-worker and literal ray of light. The days grow harder to manage, but still she keeps her head high, and pushes through with open palms.

Angela packs just about everything she feels is important to her, which is admittedly, not a whole lot. She doesn't know how long she's going to be gone for. Really, she doesn't even know if she's ever going to come back home or not.

She brings a single suitcase, and sorts things in her luggage like it's a game of Tetris; miniature potted plants go up in one corner, purse near the top, andfirst aid kit at her nearest disposal. She dresses comfortably but not too casually; white blouse, dark jeans, a change of dressings across her cheek.

 Fareeha meets her close to the security check at the airport, wearing a crimson scarf and black blazer, and an expression (or lack there-of) that Angela herself finds hard to read.

"Good morning, doctor." says Fareeha, spine straighter than a rod, gloves hands shoved into her pockets. "Sleep well?"

She laughs, from nerves or genuine amusement, she doesn't know. "You can call me Angela."

"Sorry," she says. "It's a confidentiality thing."

 _A confidentiality thing_. "I see how it is." She notices how different Fareeha looks from Ana. Stiff and awkward, slightly imposing-- distant even, with a look in her eyes that makes Angela wonder what's on her mind. "I... want to apologize for my behaviour yesterday."

Fareeha pauses for a moment, like she's searching for the right response. "That's fine," is all she says. "Let me help you with your baggage."

"I didn't know emotional support was included in the trip."

"I meant that as in your suitcase."

Angela doesn't know what kind of response she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't something so dry. "I'm... fine, thank-you."

Fareeha stays silent, standing so tall and so still that she could pass for a statue. She sniffles, a fluid clear and wet leaking from her nose, and she wipes it away with a soft square of tissue.

"Have you caught a cold?" asks Angela.

"Ah... yes, I suppose."

"You suppose," she repeats. She unzips her suitcase and pulls out her kit, fishing out a bottle of cold medicine and a plastic spoon. "Here. Take this. It will help with the symptoms."

Fareeha waves her hand. "I'm fine."

"I'm a licensed physician, you can trust me. It's not poisoned."

"No, it's not that," she says. "It just tastes bad."

"It tastes bad? Don't be silly."

Fareeha frowns. "I'm a soldier. You can stop, this is nothing. You don't need to mother me."

Angela's been with her for less than five minutes and wants to strangle her already. "It's up to you. Let's be on our way, then."

\---

Angela sits at the window seat of the plane going westward, drifting in and out of consciousness. It's been months, years even, since she's had a dream. There are only nightmares and night terrors, or nothing at all. There's never been anything in-between.

Fareeha is seated next to her reading a duty-free magazine, her eyes set on a silver Rolex watch blown up across two glossed pages. Angela doesn't think she's slept the whole flight.

"Aren't you tired?" asks Angela. The air around them is clear but the cabin pressure is stifling. 

Fareeha doesn't lift her eyes off the page. "It's my duty to protect you, doctor. I can't sleep on the job."

Funnily enough, Angela could say the exact same thing. She resorts to small talk. "So what is it that you do now? Outside of Overwatch."

Fareeha sticks to the page in front of her, an advert of a particularly attractive supermodel showcasing a particularly expensive bottle of perfume. "I work at a security firm," she says. It's clear she has no intention of elaborating any further. Her jawline is strong, taut even, knotless hair falling past the grooves of her cheekbones. "...do I have something on my face?"

"Ah, no," says Angela, flustered. She hadn't realized she was staring. She bites her tongue, finds a spot on the wing to keep her eyes fixed on, and keeps them there without saying another word.

Fareeha puts down the magazine after several minutes of forced silence. "I remember you being very outgoing."

"Usually. I just didn't take you for much of a talker." It comes off a bit colder than she'd like.

"You're nervous, doctor." She's blunt. It's almost endearing. "What's biting you?"

"Well," she says. "Usually I'd like to get to know someone before telling them my secrets. You'd have to ask me out to dinner first."

The corner of Fareeha's mouth crooks up into a smirk. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirting with me."

"I'm under your care now, aren't I? Let's keep this strictly professional." She pauses. "Unless you wouldn't want it that way." 

Fareeha goes back to her magazine. Angela swears she sees something of a blush form across her cheeks. "What you keep from me is none of my business," she says. "Unless it has to do with my mother. Then it's all of my business."

"I never said it was about your mother."

"No," she says. "But I have a feeling you pity me."

"It's not that."

"Then you're projecting," she says. "We're different people, you know that?"

"You're very talkative all of a sudden. A bit out of character for you, no?"

She puts the magazine down again. "Look, you don't have to feel uncomfortable with me just because you knew her, and she died, and now you know me."

Angela sinks down into her seat. "You don't know the half of it."

"My mother spoke so highly of you," she says. "Sometimes it didn't even feel like I was her own daughter anymore."

"I'm certain that's not how she felt. Please, let's leave it at that. I don't want to pick a fight with you."

"Then if you have anything to say, you should say it now before things get complicated between us."

She thought as much. Angela wants to be kinder, but she won't hesitate to admit that she's stubborn, that she won't swallow her pride. She settles for saying, "Then maybe things should stay that way."

It's going to be a long trip.

\---

Winston picks them up in a secluded field not too far from the airport, and takes them to the base in his airship. Angela can't help but get just a little emotional when he pulls her in for a hug (though his hold on her is so tight she's afraid she might have broken a few bones in the process), and she feels slightly safer just knowing he's there with them.

"It's been ages," she says, smiling brighter than she has in a long time.

"It's good to know you're doing well," he says, stowing her suitcase away and taking a seat in the cockpit. "So how was the trip?"

Fareeha and Angela reply in unison. "Fine."

He gives them a funny look and turns the engine on, lifting the airship off from the ground. Winston and Angela spend the journey catching up with each other, sharing the little parts of their lives since Overwatch was shut down. Fareeha sits away from them, her posture a bit boyish, absently scrolling away on her phone. Angela wants to say something to her, invite her into the conversation, but there's a distance between them that she doesn't know how to cross.

When the base comes into view, Angela can't help but feel a hint of defeated inside. She's never been posted here, but the very sight of it in all of its square-ish, concrete mass makes her feel a little sick. But she looks on the bright side, because that's the Ziegler way of doing things-- searching for sun at the darkest hour, and looking for lightning when there's no storm to be had. It's how she's been holding the world in her view for as long as she's been alive.

They land a few minutes later. Fareeha leaves for her room, her mission now over, and Winston shows Angela to the medbay. The base resembles a warehouse, though _much_ comfier and open, with high ceilings, big windows, and homey décor. Her own room is the only one away from everyone else's, situated next to both the research lab and the doctor's office. There are individual dorm rooms instead of barracks at the opposite end of the base, four of which are already occupied, and dozens more that are waiting to be filled. Winston shows her around the kitchen, the lounge, and the REC room, where two of the newest recruits are playing table tennis with their shorts on.

"This is D.Va and Lucio," says Winston. They stop playing the moment she enters the room. The ping pong ball bounces off of the table and rolls onto the floor. They salute her and it reminders her of her place, superior officer of the old Overwatch and head of medical research. The salute feels a bit jarring to her, unsettling even, like it's meant for someone else and not her.

"Good morning, Mercy," says Lucio. "It's an honour to meet you."

She smiles. "I've heard great things about you two." 

D.Va snickers and whispers into Lucio's ear. "She looks younger than I thought she would," she says.

Winston glares at her on Angela's behalf, but she smiles and tells him it's no trouble at all.

He finishes giving her a tour of the whole base, tells her that if she needs anything she can send him to town with a shopping list, and lets her retreat to her own room to unpack. Miniature plants up on the window sill, lab coat draped over her chair, clothes in her closet arranged by colour. She steps out to the office next door, and admires how clean and well-kept the equipment is after years of disuse. The research lab next door is even more impressive, with machinery up to the ceiling, everything organized like pieces in a puzzle so much bigger.

The base can only be described as harrowingly large. But the space around Angela is immense, and it's emptier and hollower than she could ever stand to bear. 

\---

Her stomach growls loudly right when she's in the middle of rendering a new model of the Valkyrie in the lab. She walks to the kitchen in her lab coat and slippers (admittedly, it takes her a few tries to find out where it is), and she peers into the fridge only to see a whole lot of bananas in every single orifice imaginable-- the egg holder, the meat drawer. Of course something like this would happen with Winston buying the groceries. She doesn't know what else she expected.

Lucio and D.Va are sitting at the dining table, munching away at peanut butter sandwiches with dull expressions on their faces (Angela worries they must have been eating the same thing for days, the poor things.)

Fareeha walks into the room wearing a black bomber jacket, the orange-yellow logo on the front and back reading _Helix Security Industries_. She puts the electric kettle on while Angela still hasn't decided whether she wants to eat a banana, a banana, or a banana.

She settles for a banana.

Fareeha opens the cabinet, searching for a suitable mug.

"M _ercy_ doesn't know how to peel a banana," she says idly when she sees her peeling it from the long end down.

Angela gawks. "Wh-- yes I do!"

"You peel it this side--" she points to the shorter end of the fruit-- "not this side."

"Don't be so full of yourself. This end is longer for a reason."

Winston shakes his head. "She's right, you know."

"See?" says Fareeha. "Maybe you should add that to your list of accolades, right next to your PhD's."

Angela keeps a straight face despite the bubbling anger in her stomach, and she can't argue with Winston of all people. "Okay. So I don't know how to peel a banana then. It doesn't matter. When we go on a mission, I leave you two to bleed out." She opens her mouth to take a bite of her banana, and Fareeha looks away, flustered. Angela blushes profusely.

 _Ridiculous_ , she thinks. She leaves the room.

\---

Angela wants to smack the attitude right out of Fareeha. She must get it from somewhere, surely, but it's been a week since arriving and she can't _stand_ it. Oh, doctor, the writing here is too messy for a human being to decipher. Oh, doctor, are you sure you should be popping pills like it's candy? Oh doctor this, oh doctor that.

She detests the way Overwatch is being handled now. Though she can see how they can't do anything much with only five agents on call, she hates how that's an excuse for Fareeha to annoy her while she's in the middle of getting work done, and asking her if she has anything better do to is an innately rhetorical question. 

"Do you do it on purpose?" asks Angela when she's pouring herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and Fareeha's leaning back in her chair reading the autumn issue of a prominent fashion magazine.

"Everything I do is on purpose," she says.

"So when you tease me and pester me it's all in good fun, is it? Within reason?"

Fareeha ignores her.

"We are adults," she says. "At least act like it. God knows how long we will be stuck here for. We could at least try to be on good terms."

"You're right, we most definitely should be getting along," she says. "I kill people for a living. You try and clean up the mess that people like me make. We're perfect for each other." 

Angela brings the mug to her lips and burns her tounge on the scalding hot liquid. "Do you pride yourself in it? Killing people." 

There's a pause before her response. "I'm very good at what I do."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Her mouth tightens around her teeth. "I wonder how Ana would feel about that, hm? Proud, I would imagine. Following in her footsteps. Putting bullets through people's heads."

"Wouldn't you know," she says, the smirk on her face daring her to lose her temper even further. But God, if she isn't attractive. 

"I'm sorry things had to be this way," she says. 

Fareeha opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind. "Your shirt's on backwards," she says finally.

Angela turns beet red and storms out of the kitchen.

Things can't get any worse than this.

\---

Things get even worse.

Winston, rocket-science-gorilla-extraordinaire, sent from the moon down to Earth straight from a lunar colony of (you guessed it) other gorillas, decides to put Fareeha and Angela on a mission. If Angela wanted to strangle Fareeha first, she wants to strangle Winston second. But as always, she wears a smile on her face and paints a halo over her head (just like her father used to tell her).

They meet him in his office and leave a reasonable gap between the two of them (enough to stop them from tearing each other's hair out, that is).

"So, uh... here's the current state of affairs," he says. His desk is littered with half-full peanut butter jars (chunky, she notices). "We've been getting inside tips from an anonymous source. My best guess is that it's someone who used to be affiliated with us." He pulls out a document on his computer screen. "Umm, there's an underground seminar in King's Row happening tomorrow night. Something to do with anti-Omnic technology. We need two agents to act as spies."

Angela hopes he doesn't mean what she thinks he means. "Surely you're sending in D.Va and Lucio," she says.

He makes a face. "While I'd like to get them up and doing something... I don't really know them all that well and I... guess I don't really know how to ask them."

"So it's because you feel awkward?"

"A-and I don't think they're suited for working undercover."

D.Va's voice erupts from the speakers. "I sense shade being thrown!"

Winston presses the button on his microphone. "I don't know what that means." He puts her on mute.

Angela runs a hand through her hair. "Winston, I'm quite literally being hunted down by Reyes. By Talon, even. Someone is bound to recognize me."

"That's where we've got you covered. Pharah will be going with you, and Tracer will be attending the seminar as well. If you encounter Gabriel, you can do what you will with him. Um... eliminate him, take him in for questioning. He's not a part of the mission, so it's up to you.

"The airship's equipped to make the journey over now, and afterwards, Tracer will be joining us here for the next few months." He opens his desk drawer and pulls out two pieces of fake ID. "If I go, I'll stick out like a sore thumb." He waits for any resistance, to which he receives none. "Overwatch strives to make the world a better place. Is... is that clear?"

Fareeha stands at attention. "Yes, sir," she says.

Angela sighs. "Of course, Winston." She isn't convinced. Though he has good intentions, he clearly lacks the conviction that Jack once had.

"Formal business attire," he says. "And don't blow your cover."

A message pops up on his screen. 

> **D.Va:** COME TO REC ROOM
> 
> **D.Va:** WE HAVE BARRELS. PLS THROW LIKE DONKEY KONG.

Winston pinches the bridge of his nose and hastily writes a response.

> **Winston:** We've talked about this. We don't speak of Donkey Kong here.

"Well," says Angela. "It's good to see that you all get along."

Fareeha doesn't so much as look at her.

They part ways after the debriefing, and Angela heads back to the lab to work on her latest version of the Valkyrie's healing formula, which admittedly hasn't changed all that much since working on it previously (when her room _and_ her thoughts filled with Fareeha and Her Mindless Banter).

 It's common knowledge that kindness and compassion aren't foreign to Angela -- in fact, they more or less make up the fiber of her being-- but her vexing actions rest on Ana's word. She knows full well that she wouldn't have had it any other way. 

So she decides to cook for everyone. It's not much, really, but it's the least she can do to get rid of that thick and cloying feeling of being unkind. With Winston's limited pantry at her disposal, the best thing she can come up with is caramelized banana (of course). She cuts them in halves and plates the pairs parallel to each other, sprinkled with cinnamon and served with ice-cream to one corner.

Angela watches Winston and the two youngest enjoy their dessert at the dining table, which they eat happily in silence (they comment on how delicious her cooking is, most likely due to the change in diet, she thinks). Her own appetite's dwindled to nothing over the past ordeal, and Fareeha's plate sits untouched at an empty chair; she hasn't seen her since the meeting earlier in the day.

The clock strikes nine when they've cleared up their plates and they've all gone back to their rooms. Fareeha's portion sits on the counter, and Angela's reaching for the light near the fridge when she makes the decision to bring it to her room. She makes her way down the hallway to where the dorms are, and finds herself stuck in front of her door. Evidently, finding the right words to say was a key component of the operation that she disregarded in its entirety.

She settles for a sticky note with nothing but 'From Angela' written on it, with her name crossed out and replaced with 'Mercy'. She slips it off from her pad of stickies and presses it onto the side, spoon resting on the lip of the plate. She knocks on her door and rushes back around the corner, and only goes back to her room when she hears the door open once with a pause, and then close.

The next morning, she wakes up from having fallen asleep at her work desk, a jacket draped around her that doesn't belong to her. She blinks the sleep away and drags the coat off from her shoulders.

 _Helix Security Industries_ , back and front. On one of the sleeves is a little yellow Post-it note.

"From Fareeha," with the name crossed out and replaced with "Pharah." Angela flips it over, only to be greeted with the fine print, and her mouth stops halfway to a smile.

"Don't think I'll let you off this easy," it reads.

She crosses her fingers for the journey ahead. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out differently than I expected... hastily written while on a plane ride back home, so it's not as well made, for which I apologize. But look out for the next chapter! I hope to see you there.


	3. Chapter 3

The moon glows brighter as the day grows old, and the roads below them mimic veins, threading around patches of land and weaving through empty space, where they gather all at once to the city.

The passenger cabin of the airship houses Angela and Fareeha, both of whom do not get much done in the way of conversation.

Fareeha is seated next to Angela with one leg crossed over the other, wearing black pants that end just at the ankle, and a white dress shirt that she's tucked into the waist. She's folding the sleeves of her blazer back and unfolding them again, unsure, as if looking for an excuse to stay silent.

"So," says Angela. She fiddles with the fabric of her blouse, and pushes out the creases in her pencil skirt, which although is not very comfortable by any means, lets her blend in seamlessly with the crowd they have yet to face. "I suppose you're not so used to this weather."

"Oh?" says Fareeha. The inflection of her voice is indifferent at best.  "What do you refer to?"

"The gloves," she says, motioning to Fareeha's leather-clad hands, which sit in the pockets of her pants. "You must be cold, hmm?"

"I suppose," she says simply.

"You suppose," she repeats. It's a little disheartening when this is good as it gets. Her fingers drum idly against her knee, and her eyes wander around the airship. There's pictures taped on the wall near the lounge area, one of which was taken years ago in December, when Angela and Mei had dressed up in Santa hats for a charity event that they'd sanctioned for sick and impoverished children. Right underneath it is a photo of Genji, his metal fingers drawn up into a peace sign with Winston posing behind him, back when Overwatch was in its prime. Winston's always been the sentimental type.

Athena's voice sounds from the surrounding speakers, smooth and polished, alerting them for their arrival in King's Row. The seatbelt around Angela's lap feels tighter than she'd like it to be, and she almost has the urge to grab Fareeha (placid and stagnant as always) by the shoulders and shake the goddamn words out of her.

The city comes into view, daunting in a way, and perhaps it wouldn't be so if they weren't about to be doing something totally, one hundred percent illegal. Winston readies the ship for landing and they drift slowly to the ground, close enough to town for them to catch a cab near the offside of the road. Angela unfastens her seatbelt when it's safe to do so, and walks over to the coat rack, pulling on her trench coat and letting her hair down from its ponytail.

"Let's keep the bickering to ourselves, shall we?" she says, her fingers furling around the hair tie and the ID card in her coat pocket.

 Fareeha smirks. "As long as Dr. Ziegler doesn't compromise the mission."

Angela wonders if she says the things that she says only to rouse a reaction out of her. "Not on your watch, I would assume."

Air decompresses from the edges of the exit, and the door lowers itself to the ground below with a faint tap. "After you, doctor. Let's get the job done."

\---

They arrive at the seminar seamlessly, which takes place in an ornate auction house that passes for a ballroom or an opera house, under the guise of being  a conference for global leaders in tech. There's a large holographic screen at the front, which splits the room into two sections, and a podium that sits near the side. The guards at the door check purses but not identities, which is a relief as much as it is a reason to worry. Angela and Fareeha take a seat in the row of chairs at the far front of the room, where the stage behind the podium is visible around the corner if looked at from a certain angle.

Angela's hands are twitchy, but the expression she wears is calm, passive.  There are a multitude of things she would rather be doing-- picking up bolts and screws for the Valkyrie, kicking back and enjoying a good book with a nice glass of wine.

"Need to take a breather?" asks Fareeha, hands in her pockets, where they always seem to be. She looks at her expectantly, with a dull spark in her eye that suggests she isn't trying to get on the doctor's nerves for once.

"Ah, that won't be necessary," Angela replies. The hundreds of heads around them remind her of a crowded movie theatre, and the light from the chandelier above them is dizzying. "I have no reason to believe Reyes will be here, no?"

"It's a strange kind of feeling," says Fareeha. "I used to see him a lot. He used to babysit me, even."

Angela giggles at the image in her head, little Fareeha wearing a frilly white dress, playing cars with a man three times her size, dressed in all black and a grumpy frown. It's funnier when she thinks about that same scenario with the Fareeha she knows now, all tough exterior and bad attitude."Well, things change, don't they?" she says. "For better or for worse."

"Yeah," she says, the smile on her face a ghost of a memory. "To think that my own babysitter is out for blood."

They laugh, and it's comforting. A small moment to themselves where the world feels bigger for a frame, and yet it isn't. "How often did you visit?" asks Angela. "Headquarters, I mean. Every few weekends, right? If I remember correctly."

Fareeha hums in approval. She sits with her legs spread a little, her knee bouncing to an empty rhythm. It's hard for Angela to wrap her head around how this is the same person from twenty years back.  "Ma used to say she wanted you and I to be friends. But you only came during the weekdays and I had to stay in school."

"And you did, I presume? I wouldn't peg you for a truant student.

"Did I ever," she says. "I didn't miss a day, not even when I was ill."

Angela smiles and her eyes scan Fareeha's face for a second too long, half-wishing this conversation could last forever. "No misadventures, then?"

"Oh no, plenty," she says. "First and last time I ever tried smoking a joint. I told my mother immediately when I got home, and I cried, and she just laughed at me. Never again."

Angela draws a hand over her mouth when she laughs. She likes this side of Fareeha. Light-years less infuriating, and actually quite charming if she didn't know any better. "I never had the whole... high-school experience," she says. "I was given a textbook approximately this thick," she spreads her index finger and thumb about three inches apart,  "I studied it, I got handed a diploma, and I was off to medical school."

"I wouldn't expect much less from the Tesla of medicine," says Fareeha, with a tone that Angela can't discern from being mocking or of genuine awe (it's probably both, all things considered). "You didn't miss much anyway."

"Or so I've been told." Their conversation is cut short when the lights begin to dim and Angela's phone buzzes in her coat pocket. She flips it over in her hand to see that it's a message from Tracer.

 **Tracer:** Heya! I'm outside keeping watch. Freezing out! Catch up with you later?

The room goes dark as the start of the seminar approaches, and a signal for cell-phones to be switched off flashes on the screen. Angela taps out a quick response before swiping her phone off to airplane mode.

 **Mercy:** Of course! Keep warm. :-)

"Doctor," says Fareeha, snapping up from her chair. Angela diverts her attention to where Fareeha is looking. Past the corner of the screen, the silhouette of a woman swoops down soundlessly from the second floor and onto the backstage. There's a small USB stick in her hand, which she drives into what seems to be a computer obscured behind the screen. No one near them seems to notice.

"We have to tell someone," says Angela, standing up onto her feet. The woman waits for a moment before pulling out the device, and shoots a grappling hook out from her wrist, leaping up onto the ledge above where she escapes through a hallway hidden past the curtains. "We need to follow her."

"And what? Forget about the mission?" says Fareeha, keeping her voice hushed. "We are here for intel, not a wild goose chase."

"Yes, but how are we doing anyone any good if we let her get away?"

"We need to stay," she says. "Let Tracer or a guard know there was an intruder. We can't abandon our post."

"It will be too late, she will have fled. We don't know the nature of the data she took, what are we to do if it falls into the wrong hands?"

The microphone at the podium lets out a small screech, and a man with narrow shoulders and an ill-fitted suit steps up to the front.

"Good evening, good evening," he says, causing the room to fall silent and eclipse into near total darkness. Angela and Fareeha dive back down into their seats. "We stand in the wake of the second Omnic crisis. After years and years of violence and controversy, years and years since the fall of the beloved yet infamous Overwatch, we find ourselves once again at the precipice of a world war." The very mention of Overwatch causes the crowd to murmur, and the man raises a hand, urging silence. "We humans created Omnics with... good intentions. But after decades of conflict, we now learn that this was at the expense of our very lives. " He pauses and straightens his posture. "We can eradicate the Omnics. In one fell swoop. Let me present to you..."The word _Project Nemesis_ blows up on the screen in bold letters with all force and little tact. "Project Nemesis. With this technology, we can do just that, and so much more."

"I need to contact Lena," whispers Angela. The minute she pulls out her phone, all eyes are on her. (Strict policy, she supposes). She rises from her seat and slips her trench coat back on. "Err, I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You need to stay here," whispers Fareeha, with bite. "I'm not letting you go alone. For all we know, there may be agents of Talon festering here like ants."

Angela raises a finger to her lips in an attempt to shush her. "Then you can come with me. It won't be long, I just need to send her a message. Let's not butt heads right now." She shuffles out from the end of the row and Fareeha follows after her hesitantly.

"We can't both leave right at the beginning, we are only going to attract suspicion."

"You're right," she says, stopping in her tracks. "I will stay here, and you can go. We mustn't keep wasting time, bickering like this."

"I take my job very seriously, and leaving you alone doesn't sit well with me."

"I'll be fine, we don't need to argue." Heads start to turn.

"Argue?"  she says, her voice a smidge louder. "I won't argue with you about your own safety."

"Well, it looks like you're about to."

"No, doctor, your safety is--"

"Pharah, keep your voice--"

"Is there something I should be concerned about?" A security guard approaches them with a quirked eyebrow, hands held together behind his back. There's little potato-coloured stains on his shirt.

"Not at all," says Angela, switching to an innocent tone faster than a machine.

"Oi," he says. "Let me see your ID."

She casts a shaky hand down her pocket and carefully hands him the card, and Fareeha follows suit. He reads them over with a hard expression,  flipping the cards over  and back like it's a religious text,  before he presses the button on his ear piece and readies his mic.

"Intruders near exit four, requesting backup," he says, fishing out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. He reaches for Fareeha's wrists, but she socks him square in the jaw before he can lay a finger on her, sending him plummeting to the floor. A woman nearby gasps, and the man at the podium stops talking mid-sentence. Footsteps sound from all directions, and Fareeha grabs Angela's hand, darting for the first corridor that she's set her eyes on.

"I compromised the mission," says Fareeha, eyes frantically searching for a way out, shoes slamming against smooth marble. "I told you not to, and _I_ did. Stupid."

"Don't blame yourself," says Angela, as they're running down the hallway as fast as their feet can carry them.  "It's not going to do us much good."

The lights in the hallway are blinding, and they pass dozens of wooden doors before they finally find a back door to push through, only to be greeted by a dumpster in a back alley and a handful of guards. Fareeha steadies herself and drives a fist into a guard's face and knocks him out with another direct blow, only to be hit with a punch to the nose herself. She loses her balance, stumbling backward, her spine coming into contact with the dumpster behind. She grabs the guard lunging toward her and throws him over and into the garbage, where the lid falls down and traps him inside. She does them in like they're nothing but lambs, and as backup arrives, they drop down after a few punches almost like flies.

"Doctor, behind you!" she says, picking herself back up onto stable footing and keeping two other men busy. Angela yelps as she's cornered near a guard who's slumped unconscious against the wall. She dives for the baton on his belt, slamming it into the incoming guard's neck, and he joins the man on the ground, senseless.

"I did that," says Angela, as the two of them stand amongst a pile of bodies.

"I'm impressed," says Fareeha. 

They turn their heads to the door, where they hear feet scurrying closer and closer toward them.  They sprint out of the alleyway, Angela lagging behind (pencil skirts are not the best thing for narrow escapes), and Fareeha slows down to match paces with her. Once she's caught up, they bolt down the sidewalk, and cross God-knows-how-many streets and corners, until the men are finally out of sight.

When it's over, they laugh, out of pure excitement and adrenaline. Angela bends and holds onto her knees, struggling to catch her breath. "I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a good thrill."

"Are you alright?" asks Fareeha, genuine concern painting her voice.

Angela straightens herself back up and grimaces when she sees a mixture of blood and clear snot pouring out of Fareeha's nose. "Oh, look at you."

"Doctor, you're hurt," she says. Angela looks down and sees the end of her sleeve starting to seep red. She rolls it back and laughs when she sees the long, shallow cut running along the side of her palm. It's not the wound that's funny. "Looks like I'll have to fetch you a mirror, you'd be surprised by the difference in blood loss between you and I." Her phone buzzes.

 **Tracer:** Just had an altercation with a Talon agent.

"Pharah, come look," says Angela, motioning for her to come closer.

 **Tracer:** It was that...

 **Tracer:** Pardon my French, but it was that blue bitch I had to deal with back at the peace rally!!!

 **Tracer:** I tried to chase her but argh!!!!!!!!!!! She got away >:(

Fareeha giggles amusedly. "Blue bitch?"

Angela freezes in place. She would laugh if she didn't already know about her. Amelie Lacroix, no-- Widowmaker. The woman who took Ana's life.

"We should get back to the ship," says Angela, plainly. It's not something she'd ever like to talk about. The moon above dwarves over them like a giant in the sky. "And... you might want to take some of these." She offers her a small packet of tissues, and wonders for a moment if Amelie-- _shit_ , Widowmaker, still has at least some semblance of heart left to leave them far from their last breath.

\---

Winston has the heat turned up far enough for Angela and Fareeha to rid of their jumpers and pop out a few buttons on their shirts. Tracer is sitting criss-cross in the lounge of the ship next to Winston, with her arm stuck in a family-sized bag of potato chips. (She stress eats). 

"And you know what she said to me?" says Tracer, licking the specks of salt off her fingers. "She said, 'Bonjour, _Tracey_ '. I mean, _Tracey?_ At least have the common decency to get my name right!" She crams a fistful of chips into her mouth.

"Chin up," says Angela, passing Fareeha an ice-pack. "Let me see your hands, please."

She seems hesitant, only letting her look at one hand first, knuckles discoloured and bruised. "I should have put my gloves back on before engaging, I know. There wasn't any time."

"Wiggle your fingers," she says. Fareeha does as she's told and they seem to be in all the right places. Her skin is dark and smooth, fingers long and nails trimmed short with a certain precision. "You have beautiful hands." She passes her an ice-pack wrapped up in a towel.

Winston and Tracer munch away at their potato chips, and Fareeha huffs quietly. "You won't be saying that for much longer."

Angela pauses for a beat, having expected something more derisive. Fareeha pulls the other hand out from her pant pocket, hesitant-- shyly even, which takes Angela aback. She's greeted with shining metal, cool to the touch, stained with patches of drying blood. A prosthetic. Angela's expression stays the same as she digs through her first-aid kit for some bandages. "I still think they're beautiful," she says simply, inwardly asking herself how she hadn't noticed the whole week that they've known each other for. "I wouldn't lie to you." Perhaps it's because she's been avoiding the sight of Fareeha, snatching her gaze away whenever she tries to catch it. She glances up and swears she can see Fareeha blush for a moment, eyes downcast, avoidant, like she doesn't want anyone to see the vulnerability in her face, the softness in her expression.

Angela thinks Fareeha might even be close to an apology for everything that's happened. She finds herself not wanting one. 

"...I shouldn't have called the mission," says Winston, scratching the back of his head after the room's been quiet for too long. "It was my mistake. I should have known better."

"No, no, it's not anyone's fault. There are failures," says Angela. "And then there are _failures._ I think that was somewhere along the middle."

"I'm afraid to know what a  _failure_ is, then," says Fareeha. Angela knows her well enough to get that she isn't joking around this time. She's taking it to heart.

"Project Nemesis," says Winston, like he's trying the words out for himself. "Best guess is an EMP, but for it to be on a larger scale..." He ruffles his fur. "I don't know. If Talon wants it, who knows? In their hands, anything is possible."

Fareeha chews her lip until Angela is sure it'll swell. She chooses not to say anything.

"In any case," says Winston, "It's good to have you here, Tracer. Some of the others will be joining us in the next few days, so we'll have a full house again soon in no time."

"Just like old times!" says Tracer, crumpling the bag up when it's down to crumbs.

Angela finishes up with the bandages on Fareeha's hand, and lingers there for a few seconds. It's a shame really, she thinks. Such pretty hands, only to be smashed raw. "There," she says. "All patched up."

Fareeha looks at Angela with a passion in her eye that she can't really place. "Thank-you," she says.

"Yes, yes." She's too proud to admit she's slightly embarrassed. "And in return, no more bickering." Her eyes grow wide like saucers when an idea lights up in her head. "Actually, while we're at it..." She sifts through her medical supplies and pulls out a bottle of cold medicine, leaning forward and holding it up teasingly. "Would you be so kind?"

Fareeha crosses her arms like a child who's been told to eat her vegetables. "Fine," she says.

Angela pours out just enough to fill the plastic spoon and guides it to her mouth.

"I can feed myself, thank-you very much."

"Ssh," she says, raising a finger. "No bickering."

Fareeha groans in frustration and takes the spoon in her mouth, cringing at the taste. Angela can see she's similar to Ana in ways that make her an Amari, stubborn, dutiful, all about fighting the good fight. But she's different in every other way-- in her softness, her playfulness. In ways that make her Fareeha. 

Angela thinks she might like those parts better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A bit of a long wait this time around as I am trying to improve the quality of my writing. I've created a [Tumblr Blog](http://frostyoats.tumblr.com) if you have any questions or feedback. I hope to see you next time!


	4. Chapter 4

When Torbjorn and Reinhardt step into the lounge on their tour around base, the first thing they see is something close to a verbal fistfight. Angela, this time the instigator, looks as if she’s just gotten out of bed, her hair so frazzled and her lab coat so wrinkled one might even wonder if she’d ever heard of a clothing iron or a comb. Fareeha, this time on the receiving end of trivial slander, is so unsettlingly expressionless that everyone in the immediate vicinity wonders if she really is upset or not. Of course, no one, not even Angela and Fareeha themselves, remembers what they were even arguing about in the first place. It could have been over how Fareeha hogs up the couch space in the lounge when she’s glued to that phone of hers, or how she mercilessly teases the doctor when she’s mismatched her socks again for the umpteenth time. And it’s baffling to Angela how just earlier in the week they were enjoying some light-hearted small talk in the kitchen over a cup of coffee.

It goes something like this: Angela comes in looking like she’s just walked out of a nuclear apocalypse (not really, just from a mini explosion in her lab, nothing  _too_  big). Fareeha smirks, utters some sort of witty remark, helps her wipe the soot off of her face, and makes her a cup of coffee afterwards. Angela actually finds herself quite charmed in moments like these, and won’t deny the fact Fareeha is very alluring, in a physical sense more so than any other. And thank heavens for the No Bickering Rule.

Except now they’re here. Barring teeth and arguing over God-knows-what (the rule’s been broken, seventy-two hours later, no less). And after countless minutes of mindless squabble, Angela ends what she started all at once by putting a hand on her hip, handing Fareeha a cherry-flavoured lollipop, and saying, “Here, because you seem to be acting so childish,” and thinks for a moment that Fareeha might be plotting her very murder with that cold yet passionate stare of hers. But she doesn’t say anything more, actually  _takes_  the lollipop, sticks it into her mouth, and parts ways with her.

Lena whistles in relief once the both of them have left the room, and Lucio and D.Va look at each other with faces that read “yikes.” Reinhardt, still standing hunched under the doorway, simply laughs, hearty and low, and follows Torbjorn back to the dorms to unpack.

He visits Angela in her office later in the evening, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when he walks in (because goodness, since when had he arrived?).

“Reinhardt!” she says, pulling her pair of red glasses off from her face and setting them down onto her work-riddled desk. “I hadn’t noticed you were here already.”

“I’m not surprised!” he says, scooping her up into a hug, gentle and comforting despite his size. “Aren’t you as feisty as ever! I don’t think I’ve seen you so worked up since Gibraltar. Bickering like an old married couple, you two!”

Angela sighs and crosses her arms. “Oh, I don’t know what to make of it, Reinhardt. One moment we are having amiable conversation, talking about the news or what-have-you, and the next we are going at each other like we are about to pull out our hunting rifles. And  _we_ are the game."

Reinhardt laughs like he hasn’t heard of anything so funny in his life. “Ah, I’m sure you’ll get along famously! Give it some time.”

She brings her mug to her lips, but doesn’t drink from it. She wants desperately to talk things out, to make sense of it all, but she doesn’t even know where to start. “Anyhow,” she says. For now she’d rather listen than seek consolation. “You’re holding up well. How is Brigitte?"

He pulls out the armchair from the corner and takes a seat across from Angela. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Angela leans back and gives him a warm yet tired smile. “I’m all ears.”

\---

Things are awkward, to say the least.

The fact that Fareeha somehow always walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water at the exact same time as Angela doesn't really help, either. Her throat's parched and she's pulling back the fridge door to reach for the pitcher when Fareeha's waiting for her turn with that permanent frown of hers. Lena squirms in her seat over a bowl of Weetabix.

"Go ahead," says Angela.

"After you," says Fareeha.

"No, please," she says, impatiently tapping her foot against the tiles.

"I insist."

"No, children first--"

Lena all but leaps in between them. " _Actually_ I'm feeling a bit thirsty myself, haha!" She snatches the pitcher and chugs it all down in one go. "Oh, would you look at that! It's empty! I better go refill it, haha!" She blinks out of the room.

It doesn't really fix the problem.

\---

Jesse joins them the following morning in all of his cowboy hat, poncho, and cigar. Angela doesn’t think he’s changed all that much in the years that they’ve drifted apart, and he certainly hasn’t fixed his utterly dated sense of fashion.

“You been takin’ care of yourself, Angela?” he says, setting down his duffel bag to wrap her up in a tight hug.

“I would say so,” she says, leading him towards the dorms. “How does it feel, settling down after all this time?”

“Can’t say I don’t welcome it,” he says, swiping the key card that Winston gave him into the slot. The light turns green and he pushes the door in with a soft click, taking in the scent of the room and then tossing his bag onto the bed. “Not too shabby. I reckon I can finally get some whiskey down in peace.” He pulls back the zipper on his bag and pulls out a small flask of hard liquor.

“Oh,” says Angela. “I didn’t think you’d meant it so soon.”

“Never too soon for whiskey, sunshine.” He takes a quick swig and heads for the door. “I’m gonna pop over and pay Fareeha a visit. You comin’?”

“Err,” she stammers. “Perhaps not.”

“What’s the matter?” he says. “Has she bored you to death? You look like a cat on hot bricks.”

“Bored me?” she scoffs. “Oh heavens no. It’s black or white with her. Either we’re cordial or we're at each other’s throats.” She buries her face in her hands. “Gott, I was being so petty yesterday."

“Huh. And ya still haven’t made up?”

“No,” she sighs. “We haven’t.” She doesn’t really want to, either. She’s not one for swallowing her pride.

He centres his hat and scratches his beard. “That’s not like her at all.”

“…What might you mean by that?” she asks.

“She’s not the kinda lass to pick fights for the hell of it,” he says. “Not the most conversational, either. I’ve known her for years, and let me tell you this-- that girl is so serious you’re better off nicking her ticket to a stand-up show, cause she ain’t gonna make much use of that. If you can coax a smile out of her, it’s worth more than a peace prize. I mean, she hardly ever does.”

Angela hums in response.

"Well, come on over anyhow,” he says. “We’ll make things right.”

She sighs again and follows him out the door, stopping him when he’s started down the wrong hallway. “Her room is the other way, Jesse.”

“Trust me, sweet pea, she won’t be there,” he says, and leads her down to the gym. 

\---

Sure enough, Fareeha’s alone behind the glass with her back turned, punching the absolute shit out of a sand bag. She’s wearing a black, skin-tight crop top that shows both arms, dark and toned. Her prosthetic’s in plain sight, ending at the elbow, but Angela has her eyes on other things, namely the muscles on the small of her back, which tense with every punch thrown.

“Got her earphones in,” says Jesse, digging his fingers into his belt and taking another swig at his whiskey. “Wonder what she’s listening to.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Angela. “Opera, maybe.”

Jesse lets out a hearty laugh. “Always had a sense of humour, didn’t you?”

Angela insists on staring past the glass wall. The very sight of Fareeha in all of her chiseled, long-legged glory should be illegal.

“Are you ogling her?” asks Jesse after a beat.

Angela looks at him. “Are you?”

“Dumplin’, you know I don’t swing that way.”

“And I’m sure you’re aware of my own inclinations.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” he says. They resume staring.  

Lena zips by and joins them. “Whatchu lookin’ at?” Her eyes find their way to Fareeha. “Huh, if only I were that fit. Ta, you two.” She zips away as fast as she came. Large footsteps resound from the hallway and Winston comes along with Torbjorn in tow.

“Dr. Ziegler,” says Winston, pushing his glasses closer to his face. “Are you occupied?”

Angela slips her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Not particularly, no…” She switches her sights to him. “Can I help you with something?”

“Great, yes, it won’t be long, we just wanted to talk to you for a moment,” he says.

She follows him down to his office, which is still as cluttered as it was before. The compost bin in the far corner is almost three quarters of the way full of banana peels.

“If this is about Pharah and I, then I apologize,” says Angela, keeping her hands clasped at her front. “I realize I should not be acting as such in this environment.”

Winston scratches his head, wearing a face that’s clearly been thrown out of the loop. “Pardon?”

Angela squints. He couldn’t possibly be so dense. If it were Jack, she would have been suspended for 'undermining the team's overall proficiency.' “Ah, nevermind… what is it that you needed me for?”

“We want to you help you get the Valkyrie back up again,” he says. “We understand that the task won’t be easy with only two hands, so…”

“How about it?” says Torbjorn, gruff. “We’ll lend you four extra hands.”

“Oh,” says Angela, lighting up. “Well this is a pleasant surprise. I could always use the help, but surely there’s a catch.”

“Yes, well...” He sighs, pushing his glasses up again, chair squeaking as he leans backward. “We want to start combat operations again soon.” No point in beating around the bush.

“I thought as much," she sighs, deflating like a balloon. “Just when I thought I was starting to warm up to the place.”

“I understand how you feel… but remember the glory days! We were fighting for a good cause. You know, it’s my dream now to lead Overwatch back to what it once was, and see everyone work together again. You’ll help me reach that dream, won’t you? And we can help you reach yours.”

She falls silent. She hasn’t really taken the time to think about things that way before. The last time she ever dreamt for the future was when she was seventeen, bright-eyed and innocent to the world’s grip. Since then she’s been driven by empathy, by her passion for her work. There’s never really been an end in sight. “Well, what can I do?” she says, with a weak smile. “I’ll accept the offer for now. In the meantime, take the time to think over our methods, yes? Let’s not go down that same path.”

“No guarantees,” says Winston.

“Just think it over,” says Angela. “That’s enough for me.”

\---

Work on the Valkyrie begins the same week. Ordering the necessary materials takes only a day (online shopping is in its prime, after all), and assembly begins immediately after Winston picks the parts up from a separate address in the outskirts of town.

Construction is well underway throughout the final weeks of October, and the constant buzz and spark of metalwork and machinery have more or less become a part of the white noise.

The base of the suit is complete just a few days before the last week of the month begins, and Torbjorn and Winston are out to the shops to buy lacquer and extra wiring. Angela’s down to the final boxes on her checklist when she’s got her welding mask on and hears knocking on her door, despite the fact that it’s already been left a quarter of the way open. She flips her mask up and turns, only to see Fareeha there, rubbing her arms in an attempt to ward off the cold.  

“Come in,” says Angela. She’s been too busy working to think about her feelings, and the two have been giving each other the cold shoulder ever since. She peels off her gloves and rolls up the sleeves of her protective jacket. “Did you need me for something?”

Fareeha seems pale, shivering a little, and walks up to her, unzipping her jacket. Angela stutters out, “What are you doing?” before Fareeha lifts her shirt up, only for Angela to see a red gash bleeding above her hipbone.

“Oh dear,” says Angela, removing her welding mask and putting down her gear. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

\---

“What kind of trouble did you get yourself into?” asks Angela. She sticks a cloth under running water and softly adds pressure to the wound. Fareeha doesn’t so much as hiss or flinch.

She huffs. “Tracer flung her goggles out across the room, they ended up stuck too high for her or Lucio to reach, so... I offered to help, got caught on something, and…”

“And you didn’t come to me immediately?”

“I could have done it myself," she says. “It wasn’t a big deal."

“It wasn’t a big deal,” mocks Angela. “Don’t be silly. You get hurt, you come to me. Hold this and keep applying pressure.” Fareeha complies and takes over. There are papers strewn all about Angela’s desk that she’s brought in from the research lab, with data recorded on every single portion of white space available. The silence between them is tricky, and she busies herself with putting the pages in order again. She shuffles them together and afterwards reaches for the juice box in the far corner of her table.

"That looks good," says Fareeha. An awkward attempt at conversation. "What is it?"

Angela idly sips through the straw. "Passion fruit."

"Oh," she says.

She holds it out for her. "Want a taste?"

Fareeha smirks. "You're cheeky, you know that?"

"It's a yes or no question, Pharah."         

“Does this make us even now?” she says. “On the teasing front.”

“We can agree to be nicer to each other," says Angela.

Fareeha doesn't say anything.

"You're stubborn," says Angela.

Fareeha laughs. "I could say the same about you."

Angela sucks in a breath and reties her hair, brushing the stray strands away from her face with the tips of her fingers. She straightens her back and fits her hands together. "Look, I apologize for starting that argument. I was tired and frustrated and I can assure you that it's not how I usually act. I know there is something hanging over us that neither of us want to address, but we can both try and make peace. Yes?"

Fareeha opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't. Instead she smiles and lends her a hand, her prosthetic, and says, "I'm also sorry." Angela shakes it and Fareeha winces, clutching onto the cloth at her hip.

"Ah, excuse me," says Angela, putting a hand on Fareeha's arm. She simply smiles, and they sit in silence until the bleeding's stopped, the adhesive is applied, and their moment together is over.

\---

Winston sends D.Va on her first mission a few mornings before Halloween, after gentle encouragement from Lena and Angela. On account of their need for anonymity and secrecy under the Petras act, only a small handful of agents take on an odd job at a time.

The paintjob on the Valkyrie is finished the same afternoon, and the research lab smells of metal and liquid fumes.  Fareeha is walking by the lab with a carbonated drink in her hand when Angela calls her in to come and see her work.

"What do you think?" she says, hand on her hip, respiratory mask under one arm. The Valkyrie sits in the centre of the room with its arms out at its sides, the Caduceus propped up beside it. The colour scheme is different than the first version of the suit, this time painted in bold black and bright amber, with touches of pink and red.  

“It’s... regal,” says Fareeha, still stiff.  

“Regal,” says Angela, holding her chin in her hand. “I like it.” Needless to say, she’s proud.

"Hey," says Fareeha, which grabs her attention. "Let me show you something."

She takes her down to the storage unit near the locker rooms, where Reinhardt's armour is kept under a blanket, next to the empty space allocated for D.Va's mech. Fareeha leads her to a smaller lot, where a humanoid figure is hidden under a beige cover. She yanks it off to reveal a sleek black combat suit with hints of gold, and a helmet that resembles the Egyptian god, Anubis.

“Remember how you said I make a living by putting bullets through people’s heads?” says Fareeha.

Angela hums.

“It's not bullets,” says Fareeha. “I shoot rockets.” It’s tongue-in-cheek. "For a good cause."

Angela smiles despite the tightness in her lip. "That doesn't help your case," she says. "I still don't approve of what you do."

"But you know, it's been my dream," says Fareeha, staring down at her palm, callused at the base of her fingers. "Reinhardt was... my idol growing up. I used to say, 'Mother, mother! I want to wear a suit just like him, and fight just like him!'" Angela laughs at her attempt at a childish voice.  "She would smile and pat me on the back without arguing, because what mother would want her child to live like that?” Her smile falters. "My military enlistment was the final straw."

Angela reaches up to put a hand on her shoulder, hesitant at first, but Fareeha doesn't resist. "Well, your dream has come true, hasn't it?"

She grins, looking into the eyes of her helmet, which stare back with a haunting white glow. "Yeah," she says. "It has."

\---

Late in the evening, when the sky's already dark and the waterfall near the base can be heard but not seen, Fareeha walks into Angela's office and wordlessly plunks herself down into the armchair in the far corner, resting her foot over one knee and opening up one of her magazines. Angela continues to scroll away on her computer absently, on some poor excuse for a news site that's overflowing with mindless celebrity gossip.  

"Hey, psst," comes a voice from the hallway. D.Va is standing there wearing a graphic tee that reads  _GAME OVER_ in pixelated font, and pink pyjama pants with little white rabbits on them. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," says Angela, turning her chair around to face her. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Nah," she says, inviting herself in and climbing up onto the bed, legs dangling off the edge. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Fareeha and Angela eye each other. "Absolutely. What seems to be the matter?"

"I dunno, I just kind of need to vent."

"Oh," says Angela. "Did the mission go over well?”

"Pfft! Could have done it with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. E-Z." She pauses for a moment. "I mean, Winston's instructions weren't very clear, but I _think_ I knew what I was doing..."

Angela and Fareeha both chuckle.

"You know, I like it out here. 'Cuz I can process it all without A, having to listen to my parents get pissy about me not going to college, or B, having to deal with those stupid MEKA guys.”

"Is that why you joined Overwatch?" asks Angela.

"Oh yeah. MEKA was robbing me like crazy, so I had to make the call to leave," she says, twiddling her thumbs. "You know, stardom itself is cool and all, but I do everything for my fans now. I couldn't care less about dating the next hottest K-Pop star-- hell, I don't give two shits about dating at all-- and I couldn't care less about the money. I just... wanna play games and make people happy." She lies down onto the bed and places her hands at her midriff. "Did I like being drafted into war? Hell no. But the gaming and streaming helped me cope with it, you know? And it brought me to where I am today."

"When were you drafted?" asks Angela.

"Sixteen," she says.

"Mein gott!" cries Angela. "Unacceptable."

"Right? See, at least  _someone_  gets it. I mean, duh, I thought it was cool at first, but once I started thinking about it... what the hell? So then I got offered movie roles, and was that any better? No. Have you ever seen 'Hero of my Storm'?"

Angela and Fareeha shake their heads.

"Yeah, I was in it. Don't watch it. That shit was harder to deal with than fighting the freaking robo-kaiju in Busan. Do you know how the director treated me? Like I was just some girl with an adorable little 'ethnic' face that could make bank. He was  _such_  a dickwad."

"You should have punched him," says Fareeha, twirling the string of her hoodie.

D.Va cackles.

"Pharah!" says Angela. "That's too much."

"Okay,” says Fareeha. “You should have killed him."

D.Va laughs even harder. She calms down after a minute and flips onto her side, propping her head up onto her palm. "Sometimes I do think about going to college," she says. "Maybe for something like graphic design. It's not a field of study that my parents would really be happy about, but whatever... it'd make _me_ happy. I made my logo myself, actually."

"Really!" says Fareeha. Angela looks equally as impressed.

"Yup, the one and only" she says. She squints and points fingers at them. "So what's the deal between you two? Are you guys like... fighting, or are you friends now? I mean, what gives? You guys have scared half of us off."

Angela and Fareeha look at each other and smile.

"I think... I think we're okay," says Angela.

"Yeah," says Fareeha, dismissively waving a hand. "We're okay. We're okay."

"Huh," says D.Va. "Anyway, I've QQ'd enough already." Angela doesn't know what the word means, but she can infer. She drops down from the bed and sticks her feet back into her bunny slippers.

"Before you go," says Angela, and she tosses her a square of chocolate from her drawer, which she catches in her palms.

"Oh shit, you have candy!" says D.Va, unwrapping it and throwing it into her mouth. "No wonder you hang out here, Pharah."

"Hmm, you're right," says Fareeha. "Dr. Ziegler _does_ have an unusually large stash of candies."

Angela laughs and raises her arms up in defeat. "I've been caught red-handed. What will I do?"

D.Va giggles. "I think you guys are cool," she says, heading for the door. "You can call me Hana, I don't mind. Good night, guys."

They both wave her good night, and her shadow disappears from the hallway.

"I should probably get going, too," says Fareeha, pushing down on the armrests and back onto her two feet.

"I thank you for the company," says Angela.

"Won't you toss me one too?" asks Fareeha, in a sing-songy voice.

Angela scrunches her nose and playfully sticks out her tongue, tossing her a square. "Cheeky."

She catches it singlehandedly. "I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well."

"Sleep well," she replies.

\---

Angela doesn't dream that night. It's better than the nightmares.

\---

When she wakes up the next morning, the team is pulling their boots on and polishing their guns for a combat mission. She’s groggy and dreary and doesn’t quite comprehend the scale of it all until Jesse tells her they’re rolling out onto the battlefield to shut down an Omnium that was thought to be long since defunct.

She's stuck at her sink on the verge of dry heaving a skipped supper while everyone else is already waiting down in the hangar. She should be ready for this. Reinhardt, Jack-- hell, almost all of the original team actually enjoyed  what they did, and she honest to God wonders just _how_  they didn't feel that weight on their conscience. That lingering feeling of dread and despair.

It comes with the work, she thinks. With saving those extra lives.

She still isn't used to it. She just doesn't want to admit it.

"Oi, luv," says Lena, furiously knocking on the restroom door. "You still in there? We're off in a few."

"I nodded off," she lies. "I'll be out in a moment."

She busies herself by practicing her smiles in the mirror. The first one she makes is too grim and too telling for anyone to even think she was alright. The second one is far too bright to fool anyone, all teeth and no restraint. The third time she tries, she doesn't smile at all.

Somehow, that's better. 

\---

Angela slips into her suit in the locker room, balling up her fist and unclenching it again, the feel of the material smooth and flexible. She wraps a creamy white scarf around her shoulders just in case (she checks the forecast, it's not looking good today), and joins the rest of the team bunched up in front of the airship. Reinhardt's sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as D.Va scribbles down her signature in his palm-sized autograph book, and Lucio has his pen at the ready for his turn to get his shirt signed.  

Fareeha's standing by her lonesome, clad in her black combat armour with a red scarf draped around her neck, helmet tucked under one arm, and Angela can't help but think _goodness,_ does she ever look good. She spots Angela walking over and fetches her a small grin.

"Are you well this morning?" she asks, voice clear and concise.

Lena jumps in before she can reply.

"Scarf buddies!" says Lena, sticking a camera into their faces. They instinctively smile and she pushes a finger down on the shutter.

"What's this about?" asks Angela, dazed from the flash, voice still throaty from sleep.

"Mei's been teaching me a few tips and tricks," she says, flipping through her photos. "You've seen her nature photography blog right? Absolutely brilliant." Her face lights up when she's found the right photo, and shoves it into their view. It's a candid photo of Angela and Fareeha, leaning on each other in the airship, fast asleep. "I took it on our way back from King's Row that night. You alright with it? I can delete it if you want."

Angela and Fareeha look at each other as if seeking each other's approval.

"I... have no strong feelings either way," says Angela. She's too confused to have any real sort of opinion. Fareeha nods in agreement.

Lena shows them the photo she's just taken, Angela smiling very sweetly and Fareeha attempting to do the same, although caught in the moment surprised and off-guard. "Cute, right? The scarves are a nice touch. Mei was thinking about putting a scrapbook together. For our times in Overwatch. She told me to get a head start before she gets back."

 Winston clears his throat and Lena puts her camera back into her pouch. He gathers everyone around at the foot of the airship in a straight row. "So," he says. "Um..." His eyes scan the small crowd in front of him and he gulps. Lena and Angela throw him a thumbs up. "Athena notified me of suspicious activity at an Omnium not too far north from here. We suspect it might have reactivated somehow, so we need to prepare ourselves for combat. Best case scenario, we can make it in time before the bots are awake, and we can shut it down for good. However, if we're too late, we're up against an army. Is... is that clear?"

The crew salutes him almost in sync, and Angela wearily does the same. Winston beams, and while Angela feels happy for him, she despises the gesture. She remembers the first time she stepped out onto the battlefield, saw that tastelessly militaristic salute, and thought to herself, "This is how I lost my parents."

She keeps her hand held crisp to her forehead.

\---

It's far from the best case scenario. The Omnium, for one, is way out in the middle of an icy and isolated plain, which is a good thing, but there are floods of combat units pouring out from every window and every exit like an infestation. Vastly outnumbered is an understatement. 

"Shield recharging!" shouts Reinhardt, falling back from the onslaught of gunshots.

Winston deploys his barrier and everyone huddles inside, bullets bouncing off the domelike projection. They've been at this for a little over an hour, and they're down to the final horde. The opposing Omnics are the first itineration of the Bastion units, made with the intention to mow down oncoming soldiers. Luckily, however, they're glitchy at best, spreading apart from each other and spitting out bullets in their confusion.

"I don't know about y'all," says Jesse, holding onto his hat. "But we're gonna need more firepower."

"Pharah, what's your clip?" asks Lena. "I'm all out of sticky bombs."

"I can go six," she says. "Seven with a concussion blast."

"Ultimate status?" asks Winston.

"Ninety-seven," she replies. Her face is ruddy with the cold.

"My sound barrier's almost up," says Lucio. "We can coordinate and push through."

"Will it be enough?" asks Lena.

"Pharah," says Angela. "What's your ultimate ability?"

"It... sends a volley of rockets down," she replies, hesitant. "I can take down a single group all at once."

Angela thinks it over and says, "I can boost you."

"What?"

"You fly up there, activate your ultimate, and I'll keep my damage boost tethered to you."

"We can't do that," she says. "It's not safe for you. We need you to stay on the backlines."

"No, she's right," says Reinhardt. Winston's barrier starts to crack and crumble. "We need more power, and that's the best way to do it."

"I have an idea," says Angela. "We have Winston, D.Va, and Reinhardt herd as many Omnics as they can into a concentrated group. While the sound barrier is activated, you fly up, use your ultimate, and I damage boost you."

"It's a solid plan," says Winston. "Are we all clear on that?"

"Sir," they respond in unison.

Fareeha looks at her wearily. There's no questioning her superior. "Stay behind me. Okay?"

Angela nods, determined, and Winston's barrier shatters. Lucio slams his amplifier to the ground and Reinhardt bellows, bringing up his shield and urging everyone to push through. Winston leaps to one end and D.Va boosts herself over to another, pushing the bots into a single cluster.   

"Go, go, go!" yells Jesse, picking off bots that totter off to the sides.

Fareeha shoots up into the air and Angela spreads her wings to fly up to her, the beam from the Caduceus latching onto her armour. The flaps on her shoulders lift up and a slurry of rockets come crashing down onto the Omnics, blowing them into pieces. The team cheers.

"Push forward, let's get the last of 'em!" says Jesse.

Reinhardt puts his shield down and swings out his hammer, slicing through the ground and sending a ball of fire hurdling through a row of Omnics.

"Rocket fuel at twenty-four percent," says Fareeha, gently landing while shooting at the Omnics surrounding her like zombies. She flies up again. "Still with me, doctor?"

"Right beside you," she says, focusing the beam onto her.

The rest of the team rushes ahead, leaving the two of them to fend off the incoming swarm alone. She sends a concussion blast flying down, knocking them back into all four directions.

"Argh!" says Reinhardt, bringing his barrier back up again. His helmet's flown off and there's a cut running along his forehead, blood pouring out from the gash. "I need healing!"

"You've overextended, we need _backup!_ " says Fareeha. A sentry sneaks up behind them and aims its gun at Angela, sending a line of bullets straight through her wings, cutting through the metal at a loose hinge. The wings fizzle, break, and she tumbles to the icy ground below. Fareeha dives after her and wraps herself around Angela just inches before they hit the ground, cushioning her fall with her body and letting a slurry of bullets dig into the back of her armour. The team arrives and Fareeha's still holding her in her arms, shielding her from the stray bullets. When the coast is clear, she whips out her rocket launcher and shoots down the last standing Omnic with a single direct hit.

"Are you alright, doctor?" she says, a hand under her back and another on her shoulder.

Angela's still in a daze. "Yes, I... I'm fine."

The team circles around the two of them, in the centre of a battlefield turned graveyard.

"What do you have to say for yourselves!" says Fareeha, jaw taut and neck rigid. "We are privileged to have a medic, and the least we can do is _stay_ with her."

They fall silent. Reinhardt is the first to speak up.

"I'm sorry, Angela," he says. "You know fighting adds fuel to my fire."

She brings the Caduceus up to his forehead. The sun-yellow beam pulls skin back together, and only seconds later it's as if there was never a wound there at all. He opens his mouth to speak again, but she brings up a finger to quiet him. "Ah," she says. She doesn't want to hear it. "Save it for later, please."

The reawakening of another Omnium can only mean one thing.

Frankly, they've all had enough for the day.

\---

Angela has trouble sleeping that night. It's not anything very alarming at all, not with the storm passing overhead, and she reasons the thunder is enough to keep everyone else lying wide-eyed in their beds as well. She figures now is the best time to get up and have a glass of water, and wanders to the kitchen to see Fareeha on the couch staring out the window, rolled up in a thick blanket with a mug of something sweet-smelling in her hand.

"I made extra," says Fareeha, gesturing towards the pot on the stove. "Help yourself."

She peeks into the saucepan and sees a white liquid, frothing a little at the edges with the heat. "What is it? It smells delicious."

"Sahlab," she says. "It's good, try it."

She pours herself a mug and sits down next to her. She takes a tentative sip, careful not to burn her tongue, and lights up at the taste. "It's very sweet," she says. "I'll be bouncing around in a sugar-high before long." She wraps her hands around the centre of the mug, heat tickling her palms. Rain splatters onto the window like flicks of a paintbrush. The trees outside are starting to grow weak, and the leaves below are like aging stars, turned red with time.  

"You know, I was wrong about you," says Angela. She picks at the hair tie around her wrist. "You do the things that you do to protect the people around you. We're similar in that way. Fighting for the same things. You're not a killer."

Fareeha looks at her with eyes as big as saucers.

"Did I... say something unusual?"

"No, no, it's just... no one has ever said that to me before."

Angela keeps her eyes fixed on the swirling hot drink in her hands. "Tell me we're going to be okay out here," she says. "Tell me there won't be another world war."

Fareeha is quiet. "I can't promise that," she says. She shifts her weight just slightly. "Hey, I'm... really, truly sorry about how I've acted for the past month." Angela smiles but doesn't meet her sight. "My father used to regress as a defense mechanism. He left us when I was just a baby, so I didn't know him very well... he was an accountant, an everyday man. Maybe I get it from him."

Angela pictures the other side of Ana that she never got to see, living as a single mother, picking up new toys for Fareeha whenever she could, calling the nanny to see if she was doing alright.

The expression Fareeha wears is pained, anguished. "The last time I ever saw my mother, we had a fight." She pauses, collecting herself, and closes her eyes. "The last thing she ever said to me was how much she wished I were like you. I was furious, and didn't say goodbye when she left for her mission." She opens them again. "And then she was gone. Just like that." She pauses for a beat. "I'm in my thirties. I can't justify my behaviour. But when I see you, I think of what she said. And still I don't know how to feel."

Angela feels the guilt weighing down in her stomach. "You don't have to apologize," she says weakly. "She loved you very much, Pharah."

"I know," she says. "But it took me too long to realize it." She waits and notices Angela's drink is still at the same volume it was before. "Are you afraid of getting hyper?"

"A bit," she says. The moonlight shining through brings out the golden tinge of her hair, which cascades down her shoulders.

"You should let your hair down more often," says Fareeha. "You look nice."

Angela laughs. "I hardly expected you to make a pass at me at this hour. You surprise me, Pharah."

"Hey," she says. She inches closer. "You can call me Fareeha."

She looks into her eyes, a rich and deep brown that reminds her only of the finest oak. "Only if you call me Angela," she says.

"It's a deal." She finishes up her mug to the last drop. "Want to know something funny?"

"What is it?" She takes one more sip.

"This drink is known to be an aphrodisiac."

She nearly chokes.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." The mischievous look on her face says otherwise. "Anyway." She lifts herself off from the sofa, the foam beneath rising up again. "I should clean up."

Angela tugs on her blanket. "No," she says, soft. "Stay a while longer."

Fareeha raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"Doctor's orders," she adds.

Fareeha smiles and sits back down, wrapping her blanket around the both of them.

It works every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some regrets with the way I handled the second chapter, mostly because of how I rushed it and left out all the potential details. I hope I was able to compensate well with this chapter. As always, see you around!
> 
> Note: I suspect there might be a bit of a delay for the next chapter as I have a deadline to meet. Hopefully that won't be the case. Take care, everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

At the age of ten, Angela doesn't daydream of princes and dragons or crickets and ponies, but rather dreams of one day finding the cure to cancer. At ten she already understands that cancer is not something that is caught through the air, but instead is something that happens from the body itself, when cells divide and divide and divide until finally something called a tumour is formed.  She learns too soon that a tumour is deadly when her grandfather stops breathing in his hospital bed one day, and the world is suddenly empty and starless.

When she's eleven, the electric goes out in her neighbourhood during a thunder storm, which is an odd occurrence and a major inconvenience because  _really_ , it's 2048, and the utility bill is a hefty cost to pay. Her mother is out doing whatever it is she does, and she's left with her father at the kitchen table silently eating cold leftover meat and peas. Angela doesn't say anything to combat the lingering quiet simply because she doesn't feel the need to. Her father's very presence serves as ample company, and she can't think of any other way she'd rather be spending her Friday night. 

After they've finished supper, the sun swaps places with the moon, and he shovels through the pantry, pulling out a brass saucer with a candle stuck down into the middle.

"Why not a flashlight, papa?" she asks, pushing out the milky blonde hair that falls in her eye. Her father's nearly double her height, and the moonlight searing through the window turns his glasses into little white rectangles.

"If we are practical, yes. But we are people of sentiment, too." His face looks blue in the darkness, shadows gathering in his cheeks. He reaches for a match and strums it across the rough side of the box, creating a small orange flame, which dazzles her. "See? Very cool, right?” She rolls her eyes. "Come, come." He takes her hand through the dark and down the staircase to the basement, following the ember, and lets her hold the light as he digs into one of many dusty cardboard boxes.

"Aha," he says finally, and lifts out another box, only this time white and sealed, reading  _DIY Mini Wooden Replica: Noah's Ark_. He slices it open with a razor blade and removes the pieces and instruction manual, tossing out the box before she can even ask what Noah's ark is.

"Your grandfather gave it to me when I was around your age," he says, laying the pieces out onto the floor. "I didn't want it. Thought it was a dreadful little thing."

"Are we going to build it?" asks Angela, switching the candle to her other hand, wiping her palm on the hem of her shorts.

"We are," he says, looking more excited about it than she does, eyes bright and strikingly blue. "We'll even name it. The S.S. Ziegler, how about it? Hmm, but we can't exactly call it that... since it lacks an engine... a steam engine, specifically..."

Angela just stares as he drones on about the technicalities of ship naming.

He notices the lost expression on her face and laughs. "We can leave it up to our imaginations, yes? The S.S. Ziegler it is." He passes her a hammer and pats the spot on the floor next to him, ushering her to sit down and take a closer look. He shows her how the first two pieces of the hull come together, pinching a nail between his fingers and driving it down into the keel with his hammer. "Easy, right? Here," he hands her the next rib for the haul. "You're a fast learner."

Sure enough, her hands are quick and her mind's a sponge, and she works so robotically that he steps back to let her do it all herself. It doesn't come off as much as a surprise; Angela's always been different, for lack of a better term. It makes him worry sometimes. She doesn't go to school as the other children do, and instead stays at home to complete a curriculum meant for students three years her senior.

He has his doubts, that maybe he should be letting her play with kids her own age. Is he being overprotective? Spoiling her rotten? He's not sure. But he's cautious now, and doesn't dare let her spend time with the kids of the playground. Not after they'd pinned her down to sharp gravel, tormented her, and written  _NERD_ on her forehead in permanent black ink, which had taken hours to wash off because Angela wouldn't stop crying.

The lights come back on when the boat's halfway there to hitting water. She finishes an hour later, sanding it down and adding a wheel along with some other odd trinkets, and paints the ship's name on the side of the stern to make it theirs, and not the dull biblical ornament it once was.

They head back upstairs with the little S.S. Ziegler cradled in her arms; it's small and yet feels so monumental to her, from the sharp crest of the bow to the shine of the wood. They set it down under the lamp on her bedside table and for a moment she feels like the sea is at her very fingertips, and the sand under her feet is warm and soft. She climbs into bed after washing up, and her eyelids grow heavy.

Her father kisses her cheek as his way of saying goodnight, and she latches onto his hand, nearly twice as big as her own.

She never wants to let go.

\---

"Angela," says Torbjorn. " _Angela_."

She jolts out of her dreamlike stupor and drops the solution all over the table. She blinks a few times in quick succession and glances around the room like a deer in headlights. They're in the lab together and she's in her protective gear, but her mind's still a hundred paces behind.  "I'm sorry, what is it?"

"I said pass me the pliers," he huffs. He's very angry for a man his size. There are bolts and screws and every other kind of fastener you could think of littering the table.  His arm is outstretched, and his other hand is holding a chipped piece of the Valkyrie's wings. Oh, right.  _That's_ what they were up to. "Do you want to get this thing fixed or not?"

"Oh, um... yes, of course," she says, her hands stiffening in panic when her eyes have trouble spotting it. She finds it eventually and practically throws it at him.  

"Where were you this time?" he asks. "Wonderland? Middle-earth?"

She considers making a witty remark but decides against it. “Nowhere,” she says. She reaches for the worn-out rag at the edge of the table and wipes away at the puddle forming in front of her. "How is the missus?"

"He he, funny you ask,” he says. His laugh is unpleasant to her. “Just discovered the miracles of soap-making. At least she's up to something these days. Women, right?"

Angela feels a vein somewhere in her forehead throb and bars the words in her mouth with her teeth.  He's not worth the hour-long lecture.

\---

Angela sees Fareeha in the hallways sometimes. Coming back from a mission, speaking with her superior, walking back from her room. Always, always, always, with that same stoic expression on her face. Never changing. She wonders if Fareeha sees her differently, or if she's just making things up. She's not the same with her as she is with everyone else. Her shoulders are looser, her words more playful, her smiles less of a rarity. And God, those lips, those eyes. If Angela weren't the woman she is now, she would have swept Fareeha off her feet (or the other way around, however it may be) and brought her in for a long, busy night.

The first week of November, Winston assigns Lucio and Reinhardt to an escort mission, guarding a truck along a road used almost exclusively for transport. Much to his chagrin, Lucio is off to a peace rally the same day to protest against the actions of the Vishkar, and Reinhardt is long due for his annual checkup on the castle in Eichenwald.

"I'll be of service," says Fareeha, who Winston had thought to be fast asleep on the couch. Her jacket sags more on one arm than the other, and her legs are just long enough for her feet to dangle off the edge of the armrest.

"That's great," says Winston. "Now I just need one more person to--"

"I'll do it," says Angela, dog-earing a page of her novel. She can hear Lena out the window showing Hana a few camera tricks, taking photos of trees and Devil's Ivy and Jade against the sunlight.

Winston frowns, not with mal-intent but with surprise. "Are you sure? I can ask the others."

"No, no, I'm sure," she says, with a playful smile. " _Someone_  has to make sure she doesn't get herself into trouble."

Fareeha smirks.  _Miss me?_  she mouths.

Angela just rolls her eyes.

The premise of the mission is simple. They meet with their employer’s affiliate at a warehouse somewhere off the edge of San Antonio, escort a truck full of God-knows-what to another city across an empty plain, and pick up the cash at the end of the day. It's nothing they haven't done before.

Winston parks the ship just outside the warehouse, which looks more like a dingy looking barn, though no bigger than a shed. The planks are starting to loosen up and scar, and Angela thinks the whole place might fall down if she so much as touches it. The payload is rusting outside with a container that looks like an oversized battery perched atop. The door creaks, and a man pokes out with an untrimmed beard and a nose that’s thinner than a pencil.

“Escorts?” he says. He sounds like he’s swallowed a balloon.

“Yes,” says Winston. “Well, not me. Them.” The man opens the door wider to see Angela and Fareeha.

“Monkey, blonde one… shit, you’re ex-Overwatch aren’t ya? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve started up again.”

“N-no,” stammers Winston.

“Really,” he spits. He eyes the three of them and their pulses quicken. “That’s a damned shame.”

Winston almost collapses in relief. "So… what are we transporting?" he asks.

"None a' yer business," he says, unhooking the chain on his door to walk out and lead them over to the payload. "And none a' mine either. I built this here truck myself but hell if I know what's in it."  He gives it a good smack and wipes it down the side with an old dishtowel. “But what I do know, see, is that this thing’s gotta get to San Marcos before nightfall or our employer shreds us like cheese. I’ve done my end of the deal, so don’t let up on yours.” He lifts up a panel at the back and jams his fingers on a few buttons. The wheels glow blue and the payload lifts off of the ground, whirring softly.

"Is there anything else we should know?" says Winston.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Don't die. 'Cause ya can't do shit if yer dead." He slams the panel down with a bang, and Angela jumps.

\---

“I read that bandits come here,” says Angela. She’s sitting at the front of the payload, letting the wind weave through her locks of hair, turned gold with the setting sky. Winston's just arrived in San Marcos himself, where he'll pick them up after the job's done.

Fareeha’s standing at the back, rocket launcher at the ready and spine straight as a rod. If Angela didn't know any better, she would have mistaken her for a statue or an ornament.

"Relax," says Angela, urging her to sit down. The payload meanders along at a snail’s pace, and she half-wonders if they’re ever going to get there. "It's quiet out here.” The space that surrounds them is all dirt and land and dead trees.

"I can't,” says Fareeha, stone-faced. “I have to keep a watchful eye.”

“The sun sets this way. Surely you wouldn’t want to miss it,” says Angela, singsong.

She doesn’t budge.

“Fareeha.”

She still doesn’t move.

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, walking up to the front of the payload and plunking herself down next to her. The air is warm and dry but smells strangely sweet, of a forgotten summer and a welcomed fall.

"You know, I'm getting older," says Angela, bringing her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on cupped hands. The breeze whistles through her bangs. "I'm starting to feel it now."

Fareeha’s eyes are on the road ahead of her. "How so?" she asks. The sun resembles a halved orange beyond the horizon.

"How many times have I seen the sun set?" she says. The road wobbles under the hazy mirage. "I'm almost in my forties. I'm beginning to wonder."

"So it’s a mid-life crisis?" she says.

Angela laughs. "Oh, you always know how to charm me, don't you?"

She grins. It’s kind of sweet. "I try."

She runs her fingers along the plate of armour on Fareeha's shoulder. She can feel the warm metal under the fabric of her gloves. "Don't you get hot under that thing?"

"Are you implying I'm not always hot?"

"Oh hush, you," says Angela, playfully pushing her away.

Soon, they're not too far from where the trajectory is set to stop when a truck goes by and crazed laughter echoes through the plain. The backdoor explodes and a man with flame-tipped hair bursts out, followed by a giant of man with a belly as large as a boulder.

“Hijackers,” says Fareeha, jolting up and shielding Angela with her arm. “Stay behind me.”

The payload detects an irregularity and stops in place. The man cackles and hurls a little red globe down at her feet about the size of a golf ball, emitting a series of faint staccato ticks.

“Shit,” says Fareeha, grabbing Angela by the arm and propelling them up into the air. Sure enough, the ball blows up and bursts like a small firework.

“They were on the news,” says Angela. “Criminals, a twenty-five million dollar bounty. Junkmouse and Roadhog."

"It's Junkrat, you drongo!" He slams a mine onto the onto the ground, jumps on it, and detonates it, sending him soaring to Fareeha's level. "Fancy seeing you up here, mate!" He waggles his fingers and jams his frag gun into her face, but she knocks it out of his hand with the butt of her rocket launcher and it cartwheels into the air. She shoots it down with a single missile.

"Wow," says Angela. "I suppose you have bragging rights now."

A smirk. God, that smirk. "Always have."

Junkrat lands. He yells and shakes his fist. "That gun was garbage, but it was good garbage!"

Fareeha hovers to the ground, her heels clacking once they hit the surface.

"Whatcha got in the truck?" he says. Angela winces; his parabolic spine almost hurts to look at.

"We don't know," says Fareeha.

"Awh, of course ya do, silly! Gimme, gimme! Is it gold? Is it diamonds?"

"Nothing of your concern," says Fareeha, shooting a concussion blast down at their feet, sending them flying backwards. Junkrat grabs a handful of grenades from his pouch, lobs them at her, and she flies out of reach only for Roadhog to hurl his chain hook straight at her. It cuts through the air, curling around her waist and yanking her toward him.

"Got you," he says, aiming his gun at her point-blank. Fareeha squirms, tries to get her jetpack to work, shoves her rocket launcher into his gut when--

" _Stop!_ " says Angela.

They freeze.

"Stop fighting," she says. "Nothing good will come of it."

"Then whaddyou suggest?" says Junkrat. "We hug it out and sing 'happily ever after'?"

"No," says Angela, her hand trembling. "You join us."

His brow knots and he glares in disbelief. "What?"

"You join Overwatch. You heard what I said. Let us move this payload in peace and we'll accommodate you."

"Oh, gee,  _Overwatch?_ " He howls and slaps a knee. "Lady, you're in hot shit. Oh, wait 'til the feds know. Wait 'til the  _world_ knows."

"Hold on," says Roadhog. He drops the hook and lets Fareeha go, letting her retreat to Angela. "Overwatch?"

"Right," she says, stepping forward. "And that canister you have on your person?"

"You made this," says Roadhog, holding up his puck-shaped inhaler. "You're that doctor."

"Oh, don't tell me  _you_ know her," says Junkrat, crossing his arms.

"No, you idiot. But she saved my life. More than once. Without even knowing it." He lowers his gun to reason with him. "I say we take it."

"Something's fucked with your head," says Junkrat. "Last time we went legit we got screwed over. You ever think with that brain of yours?" He squints. "You even got one?"

"Shut it," he says. "The new start you were thinking of. This is it."

He stamps his feet on the ground, growls like a stubborn child, and then stops. "Fine," he says. "But one wrong move, and boom," he makes a show with his hands, "It's bye-bye for all of you."

"Then it's settled," says Angela, hopping back onto the payload. "Keep your hands to yourselves. No nonsense."

Junkrat climbs up and Roadhog follows suit, the payload lowering under his weight. Fareeha and Angela sit facing them as the truck starts moving again, waiting for their next move. Junkrat simply sips from his canteen.

"Boba again?" says Roadhog. Angela perks up. Mei held a distinct hatred for the drink. Too sugary, too gimmicky, she would say.

"Of course, dimwit." He chews on a pearl. There's a deep cut running along his shoulder, oozing red down his arm, with patches of brown already starting to crust.

"When did this happen?" asks Angela, gesturing toward his wound.

"Huh?" he glances down and swallows a pearl. "Oh, would you look at that. How did that get there?"

Angela brings the Caduceus up to him--he flinches for a moment but calms down when he realizes it's harmless-- and lets the ray do its work. The wound closes, leaving nothing but the blood behind. "All better."

"Jesus," says Junkrat, eyes wide as saucers. "That was witchcraft if I ever saw it."

Soon they reach the railway, which feeds into the slums of the city. The payload rolls its way down into a tunnel, leading to an Omnic safe haven which also doubles as a garbage chute. Crushed pop cans line the cemented walls of the underpass, sprayed with anti-Omnic slogans and tasteless propaganda, mostly phrases like  _MACHINES HAVE NO RIGHTS_ or  _ALL THAT IS MANMADE IS MEANT TO BE DESTROYED_.  The truck makes its way underground, where the ambience is red and raw and the lights resemble the eyes of a beehive.

"Oi," says Junkrat, standing up to kick at the payload with his peg-leg. "I don't think it's gold or diamonds in this hunk of metal."

Omnics start to emerge, peeking out from their microscopic homes. The payload stops and parks, lowering itself down onto the platform. The four of them climb off and glance around.

"...Angela," says Fareeha, voice suddenly stricken with fear.

"What is it?" she says, walking toward her, where she's staring under the panel on the back of the payload.

A countdown.

Bright blue numbers on a night-dark screen:  _0:15_ ,  _0:14_ ,  _0:13_.

"Damn it!" says Fareeha, slamming her fist down onto the grate. Angela clasps a hand over her mouth in shock.

_0:10._

"The mission," she says. "On King's Row that day, Project Nemesis. Winston said it could be an EMP--  _damn it_! He was right. We played right into their hand."

_0:02._

A blast of blue light erupts and bursts into all directions like a dying comet, and all around them Omnics whimper and power down like a simultaneous cry, and the cry echoes and echoes and echoes, until there is nothing. Until there is silence.

"Oh boy," says Junkrat, his voice tinny, bouncing off the walls. "Now I'm  _really_ hyped up about joining."

Angela isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry.

\---

Winston quirks his eyebrow and cocks his head to the side when Angela and Fareeha arrive at the airship with the Junkers in tow, and opens his mouth to say something when Fareeha speaks first.

"We were fooled," she says. "The cargo was a bomb."

"No," he says in disbelief. "It’s… There've been a series of them going off all over the world. On the news-- in King's Row, in Dubai."

Angela can see it, can see that Fareeha feels guilty. She sets her helmet down on the counter and sits, in a way that dictates she doesn’t want to be spoken to.

“They’re new recruits,” says Angela as the two snake inside. Winston says nothing except, "We'll talk about all this later."

The ship door rises, and for a moment she swears she sees Reaper outside, fuming with tendrils of smoke and dust rising from his cloak. The empty holes in his mask bore into her, staring, staring, staring, until the door closes without a sound.

\---

Angela leads the two down the hall to their rooms, and Junkrat seems lost, eyes flitting about, like he's not sure how he got here.

"Hey, Roadie," he says, tugging on his finger. "Have you seen my gun?"

He's unfazed as he responds. "It broke again."

"Oh, did it? Hah, swore I just fixed it. I'll make a new one." He marches into his room to open all the cabinets, crumple all the sheets, leave dirty footsteps on all the tiles.

"Memory loss?" asks Angela, watching on as he wrecks the room like a tornado.

Roadhog grunts. "Since I met him. Always been like that. Sometimes doesn't know the difference between an hour and a minute. Blind as a mouse, too.”

"Hmm. The name’s fitting, then.” Angela drops the key in his open palm and pats him on the arm. "Make yourself at home."

\---

She brings Junkrat a pair of glasses later on in the evening, and adds the improved healing formula to Roadhog’s inhaler.

\---

No more than two days later, the two go missing. The fridge and pantry are emptied, and Junkrat's room looks as if he's had every single grenade on his person dropped in it all at once (vandalism at its finest, she thinks).

Angela thinks she should feel angry, but instead she feels defeated. Feels manipulated, feels betrayed. But the world is cruel and it's not a secret to her anymore, not with every hurdle she's leapt over and every bridge she's crossed. What did she expect, anyhow? She searches for that humanity in people, and it rejects her at every step.

Later, she finds a note on her door, and snatches it off to read.

_To the doctor_

_We needed to get back on the road. We owe you, miss. There is not much kindness left in this world._    _ ~~Youre~~_   _Your secret is safe with us._

_Roadhog_

_PS sorry about his room. he does it to feel okay._

There's a crude little drawing of a Pachimari at the bottom of the page.

\---

The room is cleaned up and Angela is left restless that night. She heads to the kitchen for a drink of water and finds Fareeha there standing in front of the vending machine just inside, wearing a sweater that looks awkward and loose on her frame.

"Candy at midnight?" says Angela, mockingly slack-jawed, resting her weight on the side of the doorway. "Naughty girl."

"Junk food is my weakness," says Fareeha, slipping the coin into the slot and pressing C5 into the keypad. "That, and sleep."

"So I assume you chose one over the other? What's keeping you up?"

"Just thinking about… things," she says. She’s handling everything with a surprising amount of composure and poise, something that Angela finds herself admiring—they are qualities that the people around her have been known to have lost with time. For the most part, Winston has been keeping them in the dark over the whole EMP and Nemesis ordeal. 

Fareeha turns the dial on the vending machine and it jams. She turns it harder but still it won't budge, and so she turns it again, even harder this time, and it pops, sending a cascade of candy bars and potato chips pouring into the compartment below.

They stare. Angela opens up the drawer nearest her and slips out a plastic bag, airing it open.

"Throw them in here."

Fareeha looks at her.

"What, can't I be naughty too, sometimes?" she says, fanning the bag again. Fareeha hesitates for a split second and then scoops the snacks up and drops them down into the bag.

They rush across the hallway back to the medbay giggling like schoolgirls, and for once, Angela feels young again. She leads her into her room and closes the door behind them.

They dump the candy onto her bed and Fareeha digs through the pile like it's Halloween, and plops herself down after she's chosen the renowned Cadbury Milk Bar.

"Toss me one too, would you?" says Angela, settling down in her desk chair. Fareeha throws her one and she catches it in both hands.

"I didn't think you had it in you," says Fareeha. "A thieving doctor, hmm?"

"Ah, well." She makes a dismissive wave. "A little theft didn't do anyone much harm."

Fareeha chuckles, lets loose. Then she laughs, full and genuine, and Angela has to stop for a moment to let it sink in. She remembers what Jesse said, and notices the way she covers her mouth when she laughs, sees the unusual sharpness of her canines, and she relishes in the very sound.  Angela thinks this might be what heaven sounds like, and swears to the stars that she could listen to it for as long as the days grow old.

"What's so funny?" she says, forgetting where she is for a minute. She’ll tell Winston about it later and pay for the damages (if she can call it that).

"No, it's just... just picturing you in a sort of costume like the one Gabriel wears now, stealing candy from a store..."

"I think I saw him," she says suddenly, staring down at the mess of snacks still unopened on her bed. "Gabriel, that is."

Fareeha's expression turns serious. "You didn't tell me?"

"No, it's... oh, I don't know. I think I was just imagining it. Images, sounds... things that aren't there."

“Are you ill?”

“No, no, don’t worry about me. I haven’t been sleeping well is all.” She offers her a reassuring smile, which she seems to accept.

"You know, he was my favourite," says Fareeha, falling back into the bed. "Always took the time to spar with me, to sit down and watch a Disney film. I don't think he liked them but he stayed anyway." She reaches for a bag of chips and tears it open, pinching the seam and twisting it apart. "I don't know much about you, do I?"

"Mm, this is abrupt,” she says, coy. “Is this what speed dating is like?"

"No, no, really! I mean it,” she insists. “I want to get to know you more."

Angela smiles and feels her cheeks grow five points hotter.  "You're flirting."

She straightens herself back up again. "I'm serious, Angela."

She breathes through her nose. "Erm... okay. What would you like to know?"

"…Is there anything you want me to know?"

"Mm. No. I'm a simple woman."

"You're humble, that's one thing," says Fareeha.

Angela looks out the window, moonlight cast on her face, and doesn't say anything more.

"Is there anything you want to know about _me_?" asks Fareeha.

"...Childhood," says Angela, switching her gaze from the window back to her. "I want to hear about your childhood."

So she tells her. Tells her how she used to play soccer with the neighbour boy until he moved away, how she once got hit over the head with a beer bottle by a crazed drunkard and wouldn’t stop crying until her mother patched her up and kissed her tear-stained cheeks, how she used to put her karate belt under her pillow because she thought it made her sleep better.

Angela, in turn, doesn’t speak on her childhood. She's careful in this way, like if she says one thing she might be saying too much.

"It was nice," is all she says when Fareeha throws the question back at her. "I had a moderately sized home… pleasant parents. It was... nice."

Fareeha doesn't push her any further. Then, Angela rises from her seat suddenly and bends down to unzip the suitcase at the foot of her dresser, carefully lifting out a crumply plastic bag. Tentative, she unties the knot with delicate hands, and pulls out a little wooden ship about the size of a shoe. She hands it over to Fareeha, who's just as careful, tracing her fingertips across the words  _S.S. Ziegler._

"My father and I made it together on a stormy night," she says, sitting down again, reliving the memory. "On my birthdays he would make me a little person out of wood to add to the crew; a sailor the year he'd gone to Cape Cod, a monk on the year he was called to Chiang Mai. I think there must have been six people on the ship at one time." She laughs. "Heaven knows where they all are now."

A smile forms on Fareeha's face, soft yet solemn. "You didn't have to," she says, handing the ship back to Angela so gingerly it’s as if she’s holding a jewel. "You didn't have to tell me all this."

"No," she says, setting it onto her table, next to her copy of  _The Devil in The White City._  "I wanted to."

Fareeha blushes and sweeps the subject away. "So, um… is that what you were reading earlier?" she asks, pointing to the novel on her desk and rising up from the bed.

"Oh, yes,” she says. “I’m almost finished.”

“I’m interested. Care to give me the gist of it?”

“It’s... about a serial killer in the 19th century who would lure his victims to his murder house. Very elaborate. Real too, can you believe?”

Fareeha stares. "You have shockingly morbid tastes."

“That’s what they tell me,” she says with a shrug. “I can lend it to you after.”

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s… not my thing.”

Angela hums. She drives a hand down her purse and pulls out her copy of  _Moomin_. “My mother used to read it to me as a child.”

“Oh? You know, you seem to keep your memories with you.”

“What can I say?" she says. "We’re people of sentiment. Take it. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Fareeha accepts it with a small, somewhat concerned smile, and bids her goodnight.

\---

Angela is seventeen. Her eyes are bright and her mind is clear and the world is in her hands. She's filled with toothy smiles, the sound of bike chains, of letters and numbers in a textbook or an equation. If she could call herself a flower, she would be a rose, red-faced and full of love but not without her thorns.

On February twenty-third, 2054, she expects her EMS results. She's nervous but she's excited, what with all the good fortune that she's had as of late-- already a research intern at Overwatch's headquarters, already a face with a name, already on a straight path to med school.

Her phone's at one percent battery from refreshing her mailbox over and over, until finally she sees it in bolded letters. Her results. She hesitates first before opening it, and pumps a fist when she sees she's passed with flying colours-- in the top percentile in all categories, no less. Her phone dies and she leaps onto her bike, pedalling down the road as fast as she can. Her parents are on vacation in Mexico, on a beach somewhere she would think, waiting for the call that she's itching to make. 

When gets home, her neighbour is sitting on the steps to her front door.

"Angela," he says. His eyes are puffy and pink and his cheeks are wet. He wipes at his face with the side of his palm. "Is your phone dead?"

"Er... yes," she says. She steps down from her bike and kicks the stand, parking it next to her. “What’s this about?”

His lip quivers and his voice flubs. His hands shake and his throat gives in. He chokes on his breath. And then he just says it. Says those four words, and then bursts into tears.

"Your parents are gone."

Angela just stands there. And he covers his face because he can't  _bear_ to look at her anymore.

"They're on vacation," she says. "What are you talking about--"

"There was an attack," he manages. "Soldiers, Omnics, the medics couldn’t save them in time, I…"

“What? You’re not making any sense--”

“Angela, Angela,” he says, like he’s begging, begging for her forgiveness. To forgive him for telling her. “They’re dead, Angela, they’re  _dead_.”

She kicks the stand of her bike with an anger she didn’t know she had, and pushes past him, fumbling for the keys and slamming the door shut behind her. And God, the very sight of the kitchen—the sight of the house she grew up in, where she would eat dinner with papa at the table, where she would win at Monopoly every Wednesday when mama came home. She wants to throw it all away, smash it all to pieces. But instead, she falls. She slides down with her back to the door and she crumples to the ground, into whimpers, into sobs, into wails.

Angela is seventeen. Suddenly, at this age, she feels like she knows nothing. Like she never knew how cruel the world could be, like all the knowledge she thought she had in the universe was never even real in the first place.

At seventeen, she is alone.

\---

Angela wakes up in a cold sweat. Her mind races and her breath is short and  _Fuck_ , it was another nightmare, different this time, because it wasn’t shadows or monsters or a fantastic darkness. It was real, a clawed hand from her past reaching out to grab her by the neck to pull her back in again. She wants desperately to hold someone but finds no one, and so grabs onto her pillow instead, squeezing it so tightly that she begins to cry. She bites down on the case and sobs, muffled by the fabric between her teeth.

“Angela?” it’s Fareeha’s voice. She opens her eyes, clouded by tears, and realizes it must be something around midday. The door to her bedroom is wide open, and she figures that all of her colleagues must have heard her stirring or crying in her sleep at some point or another. “May I come in?”

She grumbles something in response, which is to be taken as approval. 

Fareeha closes the door behind her and sits at the foot of her bed, wearing that Helix jacket of hers. “Nightmare?”

Angela sniffles and shakes her head. “No.” She hiccups uncontrollably. “Real.”

Fareeha waits for the hiccups to die down. "Is... there anything I can do?” she asks, calm.

Angela sucks in a breath and unsticks her bangs from her face. “Twenty years,” she says, trying to regain her composure. “Twenty years since my parents died and it still hurts.”

Fareeha doesn’t say anything, and in a time like this it's the best she can do. Then, she holds Angela’s hand with a touch more delicate than paper and whispers, "I'm here."

Angela sobs again, quieter than the last. Fareeha's hand is warm, softer and more welcoming than she thought it would be, and she holds on tighter, squeezes it until she hasn't the strength to do so and then stops. 

This time, she promises. This time, she won’t let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Life has been pretty hectic as of late, and classes just started up again today. I apologise for the wait, and will try my absolute hardest to find time to write, but otherwise my plate seems to be filling up more and more by the day.  
> This was a very experimental chapter. I tried a few different things this time around, some new approaches and a bit of a deeper look into things. Please feel free to take the time and leave some feedback to let me know what you think! See you next time.


	6. Chapter 6

The hallway leading down to the storage unit is the coldest corridor in the entire base. Realistically it probably chalks down to the fact that the heating system at the base has been dipping lately, and the air is getting colder as they trudge through the bulk of November. But it might be because of the photographs plastered on the wall, haunting in a way, of old Overwatch members who were once posted up here in the mountains. Angela can't put a name to any of the faces in the photo, but it isn’t hard to tell that they're happy, all teeth and paused laughter and crow's feet.

She brushes her thumb over the photo, and draws it away, bringing back a thick layer of dust with her. She wipes it away along the edge of her jeans and opens the door to the storage unit, where the combat suits lay dormant. Angela throws the cover off of the Valkyrie and pulls out a rag, carefully polishing down the side of the halo. It can’t get any cleaner than it already is, but she can't help it. Her research is years-- decades even-- of work and dedication, and millions and millions of dollars worth of funding. It’s hard to believe that her work, her entire life, is kept on something as small as a USB stick. (Technically three USB sticks, because it’s always good to have backups.)

There’s just a small nick under the edge of the halo, earned in combat during the mission the day before. She’d saved the team with a last minute decision to pull out her pistol, and she’d managed to aim a perfect headshot dead centre in the face of a bot.

“You’re welcome,” she’d said as the bot fell to its knees, and the two youngest recruits had stared at her in disbelief. “It’s nice to know I’m still in good form.”

Hana's hands were on either side of her head, as if holding it down from blowing off. “Ohhh man,” she said. “That was  _so_ clutch. Easily the MVP. GG, doc.”

Angela blinked. “Come again?”

“Never mind.”

The team had cheered her on with a rapturous response, and she’d accepted the crew’s praise with muted smiles and simple thanks. But her sights had darted through the crowd to find the eyes of the Anubis, which were searching for her, too. Fareeha had fetched her a simple thumbs-up with a smile to boot, and Angela felt like she’d melted into the ground like wax.

Back in the storage unit, Athena's voice sounds from the speakers in the hallway.

"All agents report at the conference room for a brief meeting. All agents report at the conference room for a brief meeting."

She tucks the rag under the covers and makes her way up the staircase. The rest of the members are filing down the hall in pairs: Hana with Lucio, Lena with Torbjorn, and Jesse with his bottle of whiskey. (“If you wanted some, you could just ask,” he says, when he catches Angela staring. Not that she wouldn’t mind having a shot or two.)

“Angie!” says Lena, “You were great out there yesterday!”

“As were you,” says Angela. She notices Fareeha isn’t around, reasons she must be dozing off somewhere, and checks the lounge just for good measure. Sure enough, Angela finds her taking a post-workout nap on the sofa with the book she lent her draped across her face.

“Hey,” she says, lifting the book away. “Hey. Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Fareeha groans and turns onto her side, rubbing at her eyes.

“It was junk food the other day and now it’s sleep, hmm? Indulging, are we?”

“Mmm… good morning,” she says, voice a growl. It might just be the light above them, but her eyes look as if there’s a hint of gold in them, soft and sweet. Angela catches herself staring and looks away to the clock near the TV set.

“It’s four in the afternoon,” she says, grinning. “And you know, you could have just told me you didn’t like the book. You wouldn’t have hurt my feelings.”

“I was… working on it,” she says, making a weak attempt at snatching it back as Angela teasingly pulls it out of her reach.

“Mhm, of course you were,” says Angela. “Anyhow, you best get up. We’ve been called down for a meeting in the conference room.”

“Conference room?” she asks, dragging herself off of the couch. The nails on her one hand are painted black; Hana has been trying out new polishes lately, and Angela supposes she’s found her guinea pig. "Didn’t know we had one.”

“Neither did I,” says Angela. Fareeha runs a hand through her hair and Angela feels herself start to lose her composure. She clears her throat and idly flips through the book; anything to keep her mind from meandering. “Strange place, no? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it. What they did here, that is.”

Fareeha ponders it for a moment, noticing something in Angela’s expression, and then shrugs with a smile. “Maybe one day we’ll find out.”

Angela hands the book back to her, and their fingers overlap for a second too long.

Before they enter the meeting room, Angela folds up her lab gown into a square, and yanks on Fareeha’s sleeve, winning her attention.

“Hey,” she says. She can hear the others mumbling behind the door. “I want to apologise for… the other day,” she says. “I was a… sobbing, incoherent mess, and you shouldn’t have had to see. It was silly of me.”

Fareeha watches her closely, as if studying her. Angela’s heart beats hard against her ribs. “What are you saying that for?” she says. “Don’t think that you ever need to apologise for that.” She pushes the door open and holds it for her, keeping an arm hidden behind her back. “Sometimes the demons are too strong for us to fight. There’s no weakness in that.” She gestures for Angela to step in first. “Please. After you.”

She feels her cheeks grow hot. “T-Thank-you,” she says, unexpectedly meek, and she scurries into the room.

Winston waits for them to take their seats and for Tracer to put her bag of chips aside before he begins.

“Just a few days ago,” he says, voice loud and clear, “About a dozen electromagnetic pulse bombs simultaneously went off across the globe, all carried out by unknowing mercenaries.” Angela sinks into her seat a little, and she turns to Fareeha, who seems calm under the magnitude of their actions. “I believed this to be the work of Project Nemesis,” he says. “But I was wrong.” The room stirs. He presses down on the remote again and the next slide appears on the screen: a mugshot of a pale man with sunken eyes, and hair that seems to have lodged itself onto his head.

“This man was arrested earlier this morning after he confessed to having plotted the bombings for years, and he denied being affiliated to any terrorist group or gang.” He pauses. Though it's ample proof that the bombings were separate from Nemesis, it still doesn't help lift off the ache in her chest. “There’s still something bigger out there. Our search doesn’t end here, and for now, we’re relying on tips. I say we put this at the forefront, and resume with mercenary work on the side as we did before.”

There seems to be near-unanimous approval from the table.

The rest of the meeting is spent discussing member duties, upcoming events, agents slated to arrive sometime later this week, and oddly enough, the latest titles in video games, a topic brought up by none other than Hana Song.

(Believe it or not, Angela does have some contributions to make to the conversation, though she decides to stay on the hush-hush.  ~~Genji had pranked her with a copy of an ero-game when they were young adults once, though she'll never let him find out that his plan had ultimately backfired.)~~

When the meeting is adjourned, Winston motions Angela over for a chat.

“Don’t forget to add onto the communal grocery list!” he calls out before the door closes for the final time. “So,” he says, when it’s just the two of them. “Umm… How was I?”

“You did wonderful,” she says, offering him a warm smile. “You’re getting better.”

He sighs. “Am I?” he says. “Overwatch doesn’t feel like… Overwatch. I must be doing something wrong.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself!” she says, in the cheeriest voice she can muster. “Don’t strive for what it once was. Strive for what it should be.”

He features slowly light up. "I'll remember that."

She glances down at her feet. “You know, I've been wanting to tell you something.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, I just…" She thinks it over for a moment. She’d told Fareeha about it the night of the candy heist, and she’d texted Angela later saying she should let Winston know. She sighs and lifts her head back up again. “I think I might have seen Reyes.”

His expression turns grave. “Reyes?”

She nods.

“…Dr. Ziegler, this is very serious. When was this?”

“On the mission, in Texas. I might have been imagining it. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately, and…”

He pushes his glasses further up his face and stays silent for a moment. “I’ve been careless when it comes to letting you out on missions,” he says. “If he finds you, he’ll… he’s after your life.”

“But how did you know?” says Angela. “How did you know he was after me? When you sent Faree—when you sent Pharah up to my very doorstep, telling me I was in danger. Who told you?”

His gaze is searching, like he’s not sure whether he should let the words out. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he says. “But Jack is the one giving us tips.”

“Jack,” she says. “Of course.” She’s always known that Jack survived the explosion and had gone on as a lone wolf under the moniker ‘Soldier 76’, but she didn’t know that he would go out of his way to help them. Has he been in contact with Gabriel? Was he there when it happened?

“I’ll have you on missions less,” he says. “And I won’t allow you outside of the base otherwise.”

“So just as it were before? We aren’t getting to the root of the problem, Winston. We need to find Reyes before he finds me. And if he finds me, he finds all of us. Then we’re done for.”

“I’ll have it taken care of,” he says, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple. “We’re lucky you’ve been able to steer clear of him so far.”

Angela gulps and her stare falters.

“You haven’t run into him already… have you?”

She doesn’t nod nor shake her head.

“Dr. Ziegler."

“Yes,” she says in defeat. “Yes, I have. A few days before Pharah came to escort me. Talon had sent him and he’d found me a few blocks away from my apartment.”

“Then… that wound on your face when you first got here. Was that him?”

“Yes, but, it’s nothing to worry about. See?” She points to her cheek, which runs smooth across her face with no scar in sight. “You could hardly tell there was ever anything there."

Winston frowns. Something tells her that’s not the answer he wanted. He seems worried.

"In any case, what he does to me is not a problem. The moment the others get involved,  _then_ it's a problem. I won't put everyone else in danger simply because he holds a grudge against me.”

“I'll have everything under control," he says, his eyes gaining energy again. "Is there anything else you wanted to bring up?”

She sighs and lowers her head. “No,” she says, before perking up again. “Actually. The vending machine outside the kitchen is malfunctioning. I can pay for the damages.”

“Pharah alerted me a few days ago already,” he says. “She covered the costs.”

“Did she now,” says Angela, taken aback. She’s more pleased than she thought she would be.

\---

COMMUNAL GROCERY LIST

  * 1 pack Smokeys (McCree)
  * 1 pack Bacon (McCree)
  * Ingredients for currywurst (Reinhardt) (P.S., Winston, I sent you the recipe! You’ll love it. I’ll be back from Eichenwald soon.)
  * 20-pack Instant Ramyeon (D.VA)
  * Nongshim Onion Rings (D.VA)
  * 2 sticks Bubble-gum STRAWBERRY FLAVOUR ONLY (D.VA)
  * Green tea, any brand is fine. (Pharah)
  * 2 bottles aloe vera juice (Lucio)
  * ^ That sounds gross
  * big bag of crisps!!! Dill pickle is good, I’ve been thinking about those Ketchup ones? (Tracer)
  * Tracer you’re the one doing grocery runs this week kekeke
  * oh right!!! haha I’m such a dunce!
  * Additions only, please. We have separate chat rooms for conversation. (Winston)
  * you’re no fun
  * Bottle of red wine (Mercy)
  * Actually, disregard that. Get two. (Mercy)



\---

Winston holds up on his word. Angela isn’t allowed on a single mission since the meeting, and in her downtime she wanders around the hallways with no other company save for the echoes of her own footsteps.

She counts the windows, the doors, the security cameras. She could draw a map of the base from memory alone, and shade in all the places she knows she won't be seen. When she’s not exploring-- which is only a quarter of the time, anyhow-- she works away at her desk in complete silence, working out bargains with equations in hopes of bettering her healing formula. It suits her. The quiet, that is. But the space almost consumes her.

The team is finding more success in their operations ever since the meeting. That isn’t to say they don’t come back with their fair share of injuries, and currently, out of everyone agent on call, Fareeha gets the most visits to the medbay. A mild concussion, a fractured rib. A small cut on her face on what Angela supposes must be a slow day.

“We’re going to have to put a restraining order on you if you continue to get yourself hurt,” says Angela when Fareeha steps into her office with the aforementioned scratch on her cheek, wearing a black, too-tight top and jeans. Somehow she makes the simplest of outfits look stunning. "Fareeha, are you sure a scratch warrants a medical examination?”

“Oh, but doctor,” she says, swinging down onto the patient bed as if it’s the table she frequents at a café. “What if I bleed out? What if it gets infected? I could die, doctor.”

Angela rolls her eyes like she’s already had an earful. Really, she can’t get enough. “Let’s take a look then. We don’t want you flat-lining, do we?” She slips her pair of red glasses on and reaches up for Fareeha’s face, bringing it down to eye-level. If she looks like a work of art cut from marble from afar, then she looks like a handcrafted masterpiece up front. Silky black tresses knotted into shining gold ornaments; strong, hard features and soft brown skin; dark piercing eyes, winged perfectly in ink. Angela’s sights wander down to the lips in front of her. Full, tight, and for once not pulled into a frown. Suddenly her hand feels as though it’s on fire, and she realizes through the warmth that Fareeha is blushing.

Angela drops her hand, does her best to ignore the flush beginning to form on her own cheeks, and reaches for the cotton. She doesn’t dare meet her eyes again-- she is a colleague and a patient and nothing more. Things will never be any different.

\---

When Reinhardt comes back from Eichenwald, he brings a Bastion unit with him (much to Torbjorn's chagrin). It's tall and clunky and surprisingly chatty despite being speechless. It follows Angela around the base sometimes, and it takes a while for her to figure out that it's after the little windowsill plants in her room. She lets him take charge of the watering from then on.

The team comes back from a combat mission rowdier than ever not too long after they've adopted Bastion, and Angela spots them filing into the base from the lockers, back in their casual attire: T-shirts and shorts, slippers and sweaters.

“Did you see me own those bots!” says D.Va, blowing her hands up in Lucio's face.  "Booooom! Killed 'em all!"

He snickers and shares his own little triumphs with her. The rest are bragging about how they'd managed to rack up the kills, too: how Lena blew up an entire cluster of bots with a single pulse bomb, how Reinhardt wiped out a line of them with a swift swing of the hammer. Angela digs her fingers into her elbows. It's all just a game to them: killing things, blowing them up, smashing them to pieces. Talking as if it isn't a reason why Overwatch was shut down in the first place.

“We shall celebrate!” booms Reinhardt. He spots her watching them from down the hall. “And that means you too, Angela! Torby, bring me the beer!"

 _Verdammt_ , she mumbles under her breath. It's hard to say no to the old man. She yawns into her hand and unsticks her feet from the floor, shuffling on over to the common room, where the rest are anxiously waiting on their first taste of liquid courage. Angela's eyes single out Fareeha near the television set with Jesse. She's wearing a simple wide-collared shirt and jeans, which would look wholly uninteresting if anyone other than Fareeha were wearing it. Angela wishes staring came without consequence.

“You won’t believe what this girl did,” says Jesse, playfully shoving Fareeha as he approaches Angela on the other side of the room. “There was this kid wandering around on the mission. Tiny little guy, no more than four. He was lost and started cryin’ and none of us knew what to do. Reinhardt spooked the hell out of him. He didn’t fancy wearing my hat very much when I lent it to him. But Fareeha here… Fareeha here took my deck of fifty-two and showed him this here magic trick and he just… stopped crying. And  _that_ was the real magic. Found his parents shortly after."

“Oh,” says Angela, her tone an octave lower than usual. She pictures Fareeha bending down to eye-level with a small boy, asking him to pick a card from her hand. Her heart feels lighter in her chest, but her throat sinks somehow. “Care to teach me sometime?”

Fareeha smirks. “Is that an invitation?”

“Take it as you will,” she says.

“Well, unfortunately,” she says, “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

“A shame I hadn’t been there to see it, then,” says Angela. “Though I don’t think I would have been much help. There’s a reason I didn’t delve into paediatrics.”

Fareeha smiles. "Not one for children?"

"Not particularly," says Angela. "But there are worse things."

"Funny, I remember you calling me a child. Am I the only exception?" The look she gives Angela alone is enough to set her ablaze.

"That's a loaded question these days," she says, trying her best to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Cheers to that, then," she says. Their glasses clink once, and in that same moment, Angela's heartbeat skips twice. "Oh, and Angela," she adds, "You're rather red in the face. You might want to... see the doctor about that.

Suddenly she has the strong urge to fall face-first into a pillow.

For the rest of the night, Jesse steals Fareeha away for idle banter. Angela can't help but watch her from afar, and yes, it's not entirely polite of her, and yes, she knows she's letting her defences crumble. But once the last drop of scotch burns down her throat, there isn't really much reason to care anymore. (And a chance to check her out is not to be wasted).

Fareeha is quiet, serious. The others are unsure of how to approach her, and as chipper and jovial as they are, none of them try to make much of an effort.

"It's that resting bitch face," Tracer had said not too long ago, truthfully but not in mean-spirit. "And the fact that she doesn't really talk to anyone but you. And Jesse sometimes, when he's not piss drunk."

She's sitting on the sofa with her knees spread a little, hands loose around the beer in her lap. She doesn't talk unless prompted. Nods to show that she's listening, forces a smile when needed. She doesn't laugh often-- not even half as much as she does when she's spending time alone with Angela.

Ana was different. The complete opposite, actually. It must have been eighteen, nineteen years ago, the night of Overwatch’s first victory in months. Ana was practically glowing. She was drunk, rowdy; prompted the crew to sing the chorus of  _We Are The Champions_ , even though most were too young to know even half of the lyrics _._ Angela had just signed on as an intern at the time, and hadn’t gotten to know any one very well just yet. Still, though, she noticed right away that even when Ana fell silent, she was still the pyre that captured every heart in the room.

Less than an hour into the night, Fareeha is the first one to leave. Angela yawns again, and feels the dull buzz of alcohol hum through her mind. Without even a minute to spare, she’s the second.

\---

Angela wakes up the next morning with the image of a nun at the front of her mind. She thinks hard on it for a moment: a holy symbol carved from charity and chastity. Then, she remembers.

"Angela, you nun," her friend would say. "Nineteen bordering on twenty and still never had a man in your life? Where's the fun in that!”

She hadn't said anything in response. Why should she? Little did they know, she'd slept with just about every other lesbian or woman-loving-woman in the dorm. With the untimely death of her parents and the onslaught of work and study, sex was the escape of choice, and romance was (and has always been) completely out of the question. For the most part.

She mulls over the picture of innocence for a moment in her head.

“Smart, beautiful,  _and_  gay,” one of her flat mates had said, now distant. “God sure picks his favourites, and you can tell because he made Angela.”

“No wonder she’s a one-night-stand kind a' gal,” she remembers overhearing. “No one’s good enough for her to last any longer than that.”

When she closes her eyes all she sees is Fareeha. That devilish smirk of hers, sexy even, if she daresay. Suddenly she feels the urge to bolt up from her bed, storm down the hall to Fareeha’s dorm, and sweep her up into a kiss. She won’t deny that she’s developing a preference for her, but she’s nearing forty, far too old for what she believes is the precipice of a dangerous attraction. If she won’t deny the truth, then she’ll deny the possibility of heartbreak.

It’s happened too many times before.

\---

“Psst.”

The door to Angela’s office slides open a crack, and Fareeha peeks through. “Busy?”

Angela shakes her head. Visits were never her favourite part of the job, but things have a tendency to change. “Not at all," she says, "Come in.”

She pushes the door open all the way and steps in.

Angela’s mind wanders, and so she busies herself with focusing on what Fareeha is wearing: a dark trench coat with big wood buttons, new by the looks of it.

She slips a hand down into her pocket, widening it with her fingers, and then pulls out a small black box.

“Are you good with your hands?” she asks.

Angela blinks. “What?”

“Here," she says, steadily coiling her arm back. "Catch."

“W-Wait!” she sputters. “No, I’m not ready—“

Fareeha throws it anyway, and she yelps, scrunching her eyes shut. Somehow she's able to catch it in her palms whilst frightened and sightless, and she opts to berate her after the fact. “I told you I wasn’t ready!”

She flashes her a cheeky grin, sharp canines protruding. “But you caught it, didn’t you?”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Touché,” she says. She turns the item over in her hands, lighter than it seems. “A walkie-talkie?” she says. “Playing Batman, are we?"

Fareeha snorts, leaning her shoulder against the wall. "Everyone knows Batman doesn't have a walkie-talkie." She brings up her fingers to list off his collection of gadgets. “There’s a Batmobile, a Batarang, a Batclaw. A palm-pilot, too, but not a walkie-talkie.”

Angela hasn’t heard the word ‘bat’ so many times in a single sentence. “Should I even bother asking how you know all of that that?" she asks.

"I owe it all to Gabriel," she says, staring down at untied laces. "Used to lend me his comics when I sat in mom's office waiting for her to get off work. You should have seen him on Halloween that year. Come to think of it, his costume wasn't any different than it is now."

"Surely you must have dressed up, too," says Angela.

"Maybe."

"Oh, now I  _have_ to know."

"I was a tiger," says Fareeha. She growls softly and claws at the air with her hand.

Angela almost squeals. "So this was Winston's idea?" she says, changing the subject, her words a bit too fast.

Fareeha pulls out her own walkie-talkie and brings it close to her lips. “Yes, ma'am," she says into the mic, and then clips it to the side of her belt. "He thought it would be a good idea to assign me as your bodyguard.”

“Winston did?” she says. It's very thoughtful of him, and a sign of good leadership. Something so ancient is unlikely to be intercepted by Talon, and it's easier to access in a sticky situation than a cell-phone. And even if it is detected, it won’t compromise the location of the base or the other agents. He's making the right call, ensuring that safety is the top priority. The old Overwatch had done the same, up until the point where it fell apart like a stale pastry, anyway.

Later on, as it turns out, Fareeha doesn't use the walkie-talkie for its intended purpose.

“Could you answer something for me?” comes Fareeha's voice when Angela is typing out a correspondence.

"I’m not the reference desk," says Angela, fingers furiously tapping away.

"Uh-huh," she says. "Could you tell me what the tallest building in the city is?" 

“Here?” she says, putting her keyboard to rest. “It’ll be Omnica Tower once they finish construction, I believe.”

"Really?" says Fareeha. Hana can be heard snickering in the background. "The tallest building? You know, I was thinking the library… it has the most stories, after all."

Angela snorts. Then it sinks in, and she laughs, giggling hard enough for her to feel the need to muffle it with her hand. "I've signed myself on for something terrible, haven't I?"

Throughout the days, Fareeha tells her another joke over the walkie-talkie (she seems to be especially keen on puns.) They’re dreadful and not all that funny, but the fact that Fareeha is the one telling them is the selling point, and the sound of her voice is just the cherry on top: harsh around the edges, but soft in the centre. Just like her.

Angela feels a sort of selfish pride in knowing that she's the odd person to be granted the privilege of seeing that.

\---

The Overwatch agents celebrate more than they accomplish, and it’s evident when they welcome the new members by throwing another party full of drinks and drunken antics. Zarya fits in wonderfully, her wide biceps immediately garnering _ooh’s_ and _aah’s_ from Lucio and Lena. Genji sits off to the side with Zenyatta, and if Angela’s eyes aren’t playing tricks on her, she swears she sees them linking hidden hands together, sneaking chin scratches and cheek-strokes. 

Somewhere along the way, Hana ends up bouncing around on the coffee table, drunk out of her mind. She loses her balance and her head lands on the sofa pillow, her body dipping into a bow between the table and the couch.

Angela stands over her, eclipsing the ceiling light.

“Ngghh, God, is that you?” says Hana, her sentence slurred.

Angela chuckles. “No, I'm afraid I am just your doctor.”

“Oh man, doc… doc, am I dead?" She latches onto Angela's leg like a koala bear to its tree. "Tell me, am I dead?”

“Mm... no, I don’t think so.”

“Please, are you sure? At least come ‘ere and take a look.”

Angela bends down and places a hand over Hana’s forehead, just a touch too warm from the booze. “You have a high temperature,” she says grimly, even though she’s smiling.

“Oh nooo,” says Hana. “I knew it. I’m dead.”

“But don’t worry. I’m quite certain you’re still alive.”

“Oh, good,” she says, sighing in relief and sinking further down into the valley between the table and couch. “Good. Good, that’s so good. I like being not-dead."

“Although,” says Angela, “Don’t think I haven’t seen your additions to the shopping list. Too much sodium in your diet is not good. If this continues you will truly be dead.”

Hana stares blankly up at her, and then screams. “Winston! Don’t let her take my ramyeon away! And Toblerone, gimme another beer!”

Swedish fury reverberates from behind the counter. "It's  _Torbjorn!_ " he shouts, though he’s much too short for his anger to be seen.

"Did I ask!?” she yells. “Come on!”

Angela grins softly, and thinks she might actually be enjoying herself. She came anyway despite hearing from Jesse that Fareeha would be down in the gym for her daily exercise routine, and with her absence she’s surprised to see that her sessions are so long. She closes her eyes and visions the toned muscles of Fareeha’s back, stretching up and stretching out, sweat trailing down the drop of her spine. She whisks the thought away and chides herself, quickly downing another shot of whatever it is that Reinhardt’s given her.

Winston calls her over to a quieter hallway once the festivities have died down, and half of them have dropped down like flies in their own drool.

“Any fun?" he asks. She's not surprised that he's completely sober. He'd rather sit by his lonesome playing that card game of his than spend time with tipsy friends. Though come to think of it, she’s never seen him drunk before, which would certainly be interesting to witness.

"I'm well,” she says, swatting her frivolous thoughts away. “Is something upsetting you?"

"Nope," he says. "I actually want to tell you something, too."

She winces. "Oh dear. I'm not in trouble, am I?" she jokes, though she's not sure what to expect.

He shifts his weight to one side. "To put it bluntly," he says, "We’re headed to Zurich.” 

Oh.

Whatever she was expecting, it surely wasn't that.

"...I would assume I'm prohibited from tagging along, then?"

"Well, yes... but we can only keep you locked up here for so long. A handful of us are going, and we can keep a steady eye on you and the surroundings. It's your call." 

"I’ll tell the neighbour I’ll be visiting, then," she says quickly. Heaven knows she wouldn’t pass up on the chance to go back home. "I’ve had her water the plants in my absence, she’ll be delighted to rest her bones for the day.”

He smiles. "Great to see you in good spirits, Dr. Ziegler."

"Never better," she says, and she bids him goodnight.

If even for a day, she's going home. 

It's enough to keep a smile lingering on her face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I apologise for the wait. I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch in my life, and this was the best I could do with what little time I had at my disposal. As always, I strongly encourage feedback so I know what works and what doesn't! I've been thinking a lot about things lately, but we'll see how they go in the near future. I look forward to seeing you all next time. =)
> 
> EDIT (10/16/16): Hey everyone, so I figured I should probably give you all an update on how things are going right now. Unfortunately, things in my life have... somehow gotten worse? When I started writing this in the summer, I never expected things to change so suddenly and thereafter completely and totally overwhelm me. I really don't want to give this project up. I still hold it dear to my heart, and I'm surprised that it has gotten this much attention (which is to say, not a whole lot, but enough to throw me for a loop). I want to continue it. I really do. But with things as they are now, it's doubtful. I apologize for things having to be this way, but I just... was not able to foresee it. I will try my absolute best to be able to work on it. Maybe it will update very infrequently. At the moment though, well... we can just hope for the best. Thank-you all for your kindness and patience! I sincerely apologize.


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